


A Peaceful Place

by MulticoloredRosePetals



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:16:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 16
Words: 35,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27192295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MulticoloredRosePetals/pseuds/MulticoloredRosePetals
Summary: Christine is thrust into the caravan of the "monstrous" freak Erik, both children under the thumb of a cruel master in a Romani travelling carnival. As their lives are destroyed at the hands of other people, the unlikely pair learn to trust one another and find peace in each other's company.Heavy romance. Definitely E/C. AU. TW: sexual assault and panic attack. COMPLETE
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 50
Kudos: 89





	1. Chapter 1

He'd never spoken to her. He'd only ever seen her in passing, and it was never for long, but she stood out starkly. A pale girl with golden hair among the dark-featured Romani clan was easy to spot, and so was her red-haired father.

Erik knew that he and the girl were the same age. 16. Javert, his master, had said as much. Javert was fascinated with the Daaes. He himself was not natural-born Romani, but was of French and Spanish blood. As such, he had the same dark features as the rest of the clan; but like Erik and the Daaes, was widely considered an outsider. A useful outsider, whose freak-show (featuring Erik) brought in riches; he was an outsider nonetheless.

The Daaes were, apparently, originally from Sweden. The slight accent in their French confirmed that this was probably true. They were also considered useful, as the man's fiddle playing was impressive enough to attract a crowd, and his daughter's dancing accompanied the music beautifully. The girl's name was Christine. Her father, Gustave, clearly loved her dearly.

Had loved her.

It was late, well past midnight, when Javert opened wide the door of Erik's caravan and, holding Christine by the wrist, flung her forth. It was dim as Erik sat at his table, and even through the dim candlelight, Erik could see the puffy, tear-eyed redness on Christine's face. It was when her eyes went wide and she looked away that Erik remembered.

He wasn't wearing his mask. He cursed inwardly as he reached for it on the table and tied it to his face, where it covered everything but his lower lip and chin.

Erik knew she'd seen him without it before. Everyone at the camp had ventured a look at The Singing Corpse, and everyone knew of the red-spotted skin stretching over his protruding cheekbones, swollen upper lip, and sunken-mismatched eyes, the last of which could unfortunately be seen even with the mask. Everyone had seen his lack of nose (or rather, presence of two gaping holes in the center of his face). He'd heard screams, the sounds of people retching, and disgusted cursing when, in his act at the Romani travelling carnival, he sang to the audience and then whipped the mask off his face.

It was something he learned to block out. He went far away, somewhere very far from the carnival, when the revulsion in the crown could be heard. But Javert kept the act going every night, and the people of the clan allowed it, as it was arguably the most popular show. More popular than acrobats and fortune telling. Without the act, Javert explained frequently, the people of the clan would suffer; refusing to participate is a selfish thing.

So yes, of course Christine had seen his face before. She was simply being polite now by looking away.

"Gustave is dead," barked Javert from the caravan entrance, almost like an order. "He suffered a stroke and died this morning." Erik's back went rigid. He wouldn't consider Javert and Gustave to have been friends, per se, but they shared a common understanding that, while they were treated with respect, they would both be asked to leave should they cease to bring in money. Of course Erik hadn't known. It was the day after the clan had set up camp in a new area, and one of the few times that Erik was not forced to perform, as no carnival existed here yet. He hadn't left his caravan all day. He hadn't seen a single soul. For all he knew, every member of the clan was dead.

Erik stared at Javert, who appeared surprisingly sober. His curly dark beard seemed to blend in to the rest of his dark clothing, and his enormous body took up most of the caravan entrance. Christine was a small, skinny statue, her only movement the heavy rise and fall of her breath. If he wasn't mistaken, he could see more tears streaking down her swollen face. He blinked. "I..."

"She will be staying in this caravan."

Erik's chair knocked over backwards as he bolted to a standing position, and his hands gripped the table. "What?"

"You heard me, boy. Don't act stupid now. You heard me."

Erik swallowed. "But...where will I..."

"You'll be living here, too."

He felt his mouth hang open, and it was an effort to close it again. "But I...she...Mademoiselle Daae has a caravan, doesn't she?" He glanced in her direction, but not even her eyes had moved. She continued to stare at the ground in the corner of the caravan.

"The Karela family needed the caravan that Gustave and Christine were inhabiting," explained Javert. "The Karela boy and his new wife recently had a baby. They want to start a family of their own, and so I offered the living space to them."

Offered it. As if Javert had any claim to it. As if being an outsider like Gustave gave him a right to take hold of his property, of his child, after death. He doubted that Christine had given any kind of permission. This didn't surprise Erik in the slightest, not when it came to Javert. And he doubted the clansmen had any objection.

Erik could feel his hands whitening as his grip on the table hardened. "Where will she sleep?" he whispered, knowing full well that he was not about to watch a young woman curl up on the ground like a dog taking a nap.

At once, Christine's head lowered and Javert's eyes snapped to her back. "Well," he seethed, seeming to choose his words carefully, "I asked this one to get her clothes and bed-things ready before we departed, but she refused. And so she will have to do without."

Christine lifted a hand to her mouth and bit on the nail of her thumb, chewing on it. Her face scrunched, as if she'd just realized that Javert, for all his faults, was a man of his word. He could see the regret, palpable on her face.

"Christine, in order keep a roof over your head, you will continue to be of use to the clan, to me," said Javert lowly. "You will continue to make money, and in exchange, I will keep you safe from starvation and the cold."

"Who-" Christine's voice came out husky, so she cleared her throat and tried again. She didn't turn around. "Whose music will I dance to?" Erik stared at her. Her voice was lovely.

There was a thick silence in the air, and then Javert said, spacing his words out to enunciate each sound, "You won't be dancing."

Christine's eyebrows furrowed, and at last she turned to look at Javert. The man only glared at her and then turned, slamming the door behind him.

Erik's heart hammered in his chest, and in his head raced a thousand thoughts. Why here? What was this? Was this some sort of test? Or a game? Why would Javert place her in his caravan, when he could have let her stay in her own? Why give it away to a family he cared very little about? What would this be like? How could he be comfortable if he needed to wear this goddamn mask all the time?

Christine whirled back around to face Erik. They both stood, staring at one another. He could only hear the ticking of his clock hanging on the wall and the heavy breathing between them. Finally, Christine looked down and, holding her skirt tightly in her hands, she whispered, "Do you...please...have an extra blanket that I could use tonight?" Her blue eyes again met his mismatched ones.

He nodded slowly and allowed his hands to release their death grip on the table's edge. He gathered the sheet music and pencil that lay there and placed them into the small notebook he kept on the table. Erik walked carefully to the bed, painfully aware of his every movement, and reached underneath for his wooden storage box. He pulled out a spare pillow and blanket. He turned to her, took one look at her, and cleared his throat. "You can have the bed tonight."

Her eyes widened. "But..."

"I'm content on the floor." Already he began setting up a makeshift bed on the ground, across from his actual sleeping space.

Erik looked up at her and almost laughed despite himself. The girl looked genuinely distressed at the idea of taking his bed. "I promise I may look like a monster, Mademoiselle, but my bed is not infested with insects, rats, or demons. I keep my space quite clean and free of malevolent spirits."

Her face went from worry to mortification. Dear God, now she was embarrassed. "No!" she cried. "No, it's not...it's just. It's your bed. I don't want you to...it's not your fault that I..." She swallowed. "It's not fair for you."

He understood now, and only stared at her. "Like I said, I am content to sleep on the floor," was all he could whisper. His heart hammered, and his hands shook, as he finished his sleeping quarter. "There's a washroom at the far end of the caravan. If you want to prepare for sleep in there, you can. I know you don't have any clothes with you, but if you choose to...be more comfortable, I won't look. I will face the wall."

Christine nodded, and like in a trance, walked to the washroom, her hands clenched at her side.

Erik did indeed face the wall when he lay down, not even bothering to remove his shoes or mask. Over and over he played in his mind her expression of concern as she said, "It's not fair for you." He closed his eyes and listened to her finish in the washroom and stop in her tracks as she neared where he slept, as if checking to make sure that he really wasn't looking. She bolted to the bed and he heard her rustle under the covers. The candle continued to burn. He didn't blame her for not wanting to blow it out.

A few seconds passed, and then he heard her whisper, "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," he replied. But he doubted either of them would actually sleep that night.


	2. Chapter 2

Christine didn't think she'd ever slept more fitfully. It had been nearly one in the morning when she'd crawled into Erik's bed last night. And, according to the clock, she was awakening every hour, her heart hammering and her stomach in knots. Her father was dead. Her home was gone. She was now living with someone she'd never spoken to before, someone she'd always avoided.

She thought she finally fell asleep for a few hours around 5:30 in the morning. When she awoke next, it was 8. And Erik was gone.

Christine sat up. No, she realized. Not gone. Just not in his...what should she call it? A blanket nest? Her already uneasy stomach twisted with guilt. Her taking his bed was hardly fair; it wasn't his fault that she'd been stupid enough not to grab her own bedspread before being forced out.

Erik was slicing bread on the counter near the foot of his bed. He was dressed, though not wearing the same clothes as last night, she noted. He opened a tin of butter and spread some on the bread. He must have noticed that she was sitting, because he looked in her direction, and then quickly looked back down, tensing. Christine realized suddenly that she was only wearing her underclothes, and covered herself with the blanket, feeling heat rise from her belly to her cheeks.

He cleared his throat. "Breakfast will be ready soon, if you'd care to eat it." He put the butter knife down slowly. He was still staring down at the finished bread and butter. "If you'd like to go change, you...left your clothes in the washroom. I folded them; they're on the dry sink. I...hope that was all right."

"Oh," was all she could say. She didn't move.

She saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed deeply. His expression was hidden behind his brown leather mask, but Christine could feel his discomfort. It almost matched her own.

"I won't look," he said. His bottom lip thinned. "I promise I won't. I'll close my eyes." As if to prove a point, Erik not only closed his eyes, but covered them with his long, thin hands. If she wasn't so exhausted, she might have found the gesture sweetly comical.

Christine left the bed, her gaze darting from Erik to the washroom as she sprinted through the caravan. She closed the door to the small room where her clothes indeed lay on the dry sink. She donned her dress and used some of the water there to clean her face, her cheeks covered by a thin film of salt. She'd cried so much yesterday, and she was certain she'd wept in her sleep as well. Taking a deep breath, she left the washroom to find Erik placing two plates on his table, which was small enough to barely fit them both. He'd moved the table to stand an arm's length from his bed, and the book she remembered seeing there was moved to his blanket nest. He looked up as she walked into the space.

"I only have a single chair," he explained softly. "Would you prefer to sit in the chair or on the bed?"

She only stared at him. She felt the same way she'd felt last night. Incredibly guilty. "I'm not, um, I'm not hungry," she murmured.

"Oh," he said. His arms still at his side, he looked down at the two plates, and suddenly she felt even worse. "Perhaps I should have asked you if you were hungry." His eyes suddenly flashed to her in alarm. "Or, I should have asked if you wanted to eat with me at all. I shouldn't have assumed. I apologize."

Oh, God. Why was he apologizing? Without thinking, she walked to the chair. "I'll sit here," she said, and did.

Erik looked at her quizzically. "I thought you weren't hungry."

She wasn't. She really wasn't. Her stomach was so tight she felt nauseous. "I suppose I am a bit," Christine lied.

Erik nodded and sat on the bed. His entire body looked like a rod was stuck through it, but she was sure that she looked even more uncomfortable. Christine looked down at the bread and butter, picked it up, and took a small, tentative nibble. Her stomach roiled, but she swallowed it anyway. Only when he saw that she was eating did he also take a bite.

And then she realized why she felt so guilty.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Erik had arrived at the camp a few months after she and her father did. She was nine, and so was he. He'd been caught trying to steal food from, of all places, Javert's caravan. Upon catching him (Javert had told her father) he saw that the boy wore a cloth mask; thinking it was to hide his identity, he quickly discovered that it was actually to hide a monstrosity. Up until that point, Javert had been whittling wood to sell at the carnivals (and he was a very skilled whittler, too), but displaying this boy would bring him riches.

Her father was horrified at the cruelty of it. He and Christine could sometimes hear the boy crying and screaming from the cage in a tent Javert had stuffed him into, begging for someone to let him go, that his mother would miss him. Her father was furious when he heard Javert yell back, "What human mother could ever love the likes of you?" He'd gone outside to confront Javert, but nothing came of it. Her father only came home angrier.

Gustave tried to take it up with the clan leader, as the Romani group was whispering their disgust at not only keeping Erik in the state he was in, but also at Erik himself. Many of the members had glanced a look at the child, and come away revolted. Some thought he was cursed.

But by the time the clan was coming to a decision on possibly forcing Javert to let Erik go, Javert had tied Erik to the bars of the cage and unmasked him in front of an audience during the nightly carnival. The display was such a success that the clan leader turned a blind eye and said that as long as Javert contributed most of his money made to the clan, that he would allow it. Seeing the group's wealth nearly double over the following month, the rest of the clan turned a blind eye as well.

After all, the boy was a white Frenchman. A gadjo. French society treated their people like less than dirt, so why should they care what happened to one if it brought them full bellies? Besides, they said, it wasn't them being cruel to Erik, it was another gadjo. This was simply how the French were - cruel. Why stop it if this was simply the way the world worked?

None of this, of course, was Christine's fault. She was a child as well; she couldn't have stopped Javert if she tried. But while her father warned her to never go and visit the freak show, her curiosity got the better of her. One night, a year after Erik arrived, she pretended to be ill, forcing her father to perform without her dancing. She crept out of their caravan to go and see what the fuss was about.

By this point, Erik had apparently been sufficiently broken enough not to struggle or try to hide in the cage when his onlookers visited. He wasn't bound by ropes at all. He stared at them all for a few moments after Javert introduced him as The Singing Corpse, and then, a brown leather mask still over his face, he indeed began to sing.

Christine had never heard anything so beautiful. His voice was angelic; the high boyish tones dipped, soared, and wavered in all of the right spots. Christine was entranced, and around her people were staring fixedly on this strange, too-thin boy with a voice gifted from God.

And then the singing stopped, and he untied his mask, revealing what lay underneath.

Christine's eyes went wide as she heard a couple of screams and curses, and the crowd moved with visible and audible discomfort. A few people left the tent, suddenly needing air, and she was sure that she heard someone spill up their supper. A few, though, were laughing at the excitement of it, and the crueler guests threw food and garbage into the cage while they giggled gleefully with their friends, apparently having known what they would see and happy that they got to see it.

Erik's eyes closed, and she wondered what was going on in his head. An apple hit his shoulder, and he grimaced, but didn't look. Christine, her body still frozen, turned her head to the older boy who'd thrown it and meant to yell at him, maybe to curse at him, but all she could muster was a whispered "Stop". The older boy didn't hear her - Christine could hardly hear herself - but when she looked back at Erik, he was staring straight at her. They locked eyes for several heartbeats, his lips parted only a sliver, and she ran. She pushed through the crowd with strength she didn't know she had, and she stumbled back to her home caravan.

Her father was outside the front door when she arrived, lines of worry plastered to his face, speaking in hurried tones to a young Romani woman with her child. The woman saw Christine, breathed a sigh of relief, and pointed to her, saying something softly to Gustave. Gustave whirled to look at Christine, and the lines on his face softened as he rushed to her, throwing his arms around her.

She hugged her father tightly before he wrenched away and gripped her shoulders with his large hands. His red mustache was pointed down at the ends, matching the frown and furrow of his brows.

"I got home and you weren't in bed. I thought someone might have...Jesus Christ. Where in God's name were you, Christine Daae?" he hissed. She flinched. He only ever said her full name when his face looked like it did now.

"I...Papa...I..." she stammered, and then a sob broke forth from her throat. Gustave's arms were around her again. He rubbed her back, and she only cried harder, struggling to find air through the tears.

He brought her inside, thanked the Romani woman, and sat her down on her bed, where she leaned into him and wet his shirt with her tears. One hand was on her back and the other was running its fingers through her hair.

"Shh...it's all right," her father soothed. "It's all right, my love. What happened? Tell me what happened."

And she did. Gustave listened in silence to every word. When she was done, he pulled away from her, took her wet face in his hands, and told her, "I think you have an obligation, now."

Her eyebrows lifted. "To what?"

"Apologize."

Christine cast her eyes down. "I'm sorry, Papa."

"No." Gustave's eyes remained fixed on hers. "Not to me; although, you did lie to me, but that is a conversation for another time. You have an obligation to apologize to the boy. Erik."

She said nothing. Only stared back.

He sighed, and leaned down to kiss her forehead. He took her hands in his. "He did not ask for you to go and stare at his face. He doesn't want anyone to look at him; that was abundantly clear when he first came to this camp. You didn't ask for his permission. You did not have his consent. No one who goes to look at him has his consent. You violated his privacy, Christine, and for that you need to apologize. Do you understand, my dear?"

She understood. She nodded. But she didn't ever apologize. Even when her father asked her if she did so, she lied and said yes.

Christine didn't fully understand why she couldn't simply knock on the caravan that Javert had, apparently, bought Erik, but she couldn't. She felt too ashamed, and didn't want to face him. So whenever she saw him in passing, she looked away.

And she buried her shame deep within her; shame for invading Erik's privacy and then running, and shame for lying, twice, to her father.

\- - - - - - - - - -

As Christine nibbled on the bread, Erik continuously adjusted the mask. It was clear that he wasn't used to wearing it while he ate. Judging by the fact that he wasn't wearing it when she was brought here, she doubted he was used to wearing it at home at all. He only wore it for other people's benefit.

For her benefit.

Her guilt grew.

"Your face doesn't bother me," she whispered, not looking at him. She picked at her bread. There was silence in response. She glanced up, and he was staring at her with wide eyes. Up close, she realized that one was deep blue and the other a rich, golden brown. If she was to be honest with herself, she would have admitted that found them beautiful.

"Mademoiselle?" he breathed.

She straightened. "I only mean, don't wear the mask if it's uncomfortable. I've already seen you...so don't do anything for my comfort. It doesn't make a difference to me."

He opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. "I..."

"Of course, if you want to wear it, I won't ask you to take it off," she blurted. She lowered her head and looked down at her bread. "Do what is comfortable for you. It's your home, not mine."

He was still and silent for a few moments longer, and then from the corner of her eye, she saw him pull the string that bound the mask to his face and remove the leather. She looked up and saw that he was watching her.

Through the initial shock of seeing his face, she gave a very slight smile in response and put another small piece of bread in her mouth, but he didn't move. No doubt he was waiting for her to respond differently; he was waiting for her to respond the way everyone else did.

And then, a thousand emotions rushed upon her at once.

Christine had contributed to the cause of his reaction. She hadn't smiled at him that day she saw his face. She'd run from him. Instead of stopping the guests from screaming, swearing, vomiting, fleeing, and throwing food waste, she'd whispered for them to stop and then ran home to love, to safety. All the while, he, a child, was forced to endure something she couldn't even stand to observe.

And her father. Her father, who was a kind and good soul, asked her to do something kind and good. But instead, she chose to lie and put her head down like a coward.

Her father.

Her father was dead. He was gone. Forever. And she would never, ever, be able to speak to him again.

Bile rose in her throat, and Erik's expression changed to one of horror. He'd seen the look on her face before, probably hundreds of times, during hundreds of nights - it was the look of someone about to be sick.

She wanted to tell him that it wasn't him that was making her need to throw up. It wasn't him. It wasn't him. But she couldn't say a word. All she could do was crawl from the chair and slump to kneel on the ground beside the table, her nausea making her dizzy.

Erik rushed for the chamber-pot - clean, thankfully - and held it out for her. She grabbed it and was sick in the pot. Tears rushed down her face as she groaned and vomited. Only the small bit of bread and yellow bile came up. She continued to vomit until she was dry heaving painfully. When she finally moved the pot away from her, she looked up at Erik to apologize for what he just saw, and he was standing, leaning with his back and hands against the counter, staring at her in pain.

His mask. He was wearing his mask.

"Erik..." she tried, but her voice was gone.

"I will wear my mask while you are here."

She felt nauseous again. She grabbed for the bucket and dry heaved into it, only her tears spilling into the bucket. She shook her head.

"No," she whispered. "It's not-"

"It's all right," he said softly. "I'm used to it." Erik turned and faced the wall, his hands gripping the counter, so that she couldn't see his eyes anymore. "You lost your father yesterday, for which I am truly sorry. I know he cared for you. You don't need both the horror of losing him, as well as this" - he gestured to his face - "and so I will keep my mask on."

"If..." She slumped against the leg of the table. "If that's what you wish to do, I will respect it, but please-"

"I will keep it on." Christine flinched at his words. There was a note of anger in his voice, and before she could say another word, he moved swiftly to the washroom and closed the door behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mention of sexual assault

Worthless.

Demon.

Unnatural freak.

Disgusting waste of space.

Don't bother interacting with the people of the clan. They won't be your friend anymore than I will be your loving father.

I see the way you're looking at those girls. Keep it up if you seek to scare them away. Girls want men, not monsters.

Erik ran a hand through his black hair as Javert's words flashed in his mind like thunder, loud and cruel. He'd been staring down at the dry sink, but now lifted his gaze to the blank wall before him. There was no mirror in here. He wondered if Christine had noticed or cared.

Christine.

What in Hell had he been thinking taking his mask off in front of her? She'd made him believe that maybe she really didn't care what he looked like - maybe she even believed it herself. But the way her face went pale, the way she heaved everything inside of her up at the sight of him...No. No, he would never, ever take his mask off in front of her again. It was one thing to receive that reaction from strangers who he'd never meet. It was quite another to have it from someone he was forced to live with, someone he'd offered up his bed and food to.

It was humiliating.

And how dare she try to convince him that it wasn't him that caused her to be sick? How dare she imply that he was that stupid? The kind thing would have been to admit that he was monstrous and move on; she had to drag out the process.

Erik stood up straight. It wasn't her fault; not really. He knew her actions came from a place of kindness; she wasn't meaning to be so belittling. He took a deep breath and stepped out into the main space of the caravan. Christine was nowhere to be found. And neither, he realized, was the chamber-pot.

He went to the front door and was about to reach for it, when it opened on its own to reveal Christine, still pale, holding the pot in her hands. She jumped a bit when she saw him standing there, and then relaxed.

"I cleaned it," she explained, looking down. "I'm sorry for...for using it the way I did."

"It's all right," he said, and made way for her to enter. She stepped in, and he closed the door. They both stood there, neither looking at the other, until at last Christine cleared her throat.

"I won't ask you to remove your mask again," she said. She furrowed her brow, and opened her mouth again, only to close it. A few more seconds of silence passed, and then she whispered, "I'm sorry."

"No need," he responded. "It wasn't an unusual reaction."

She looked up at him, and he thought maybe she wanted to say more, but then she shook her head and placed the pot under the bed. "I am sorry. Again."

It was Erik's turn to shake his head. "You don't have to-"

The door of the caravan opened, and both Erik and Christine started. Javert stood there, his eyes a familiar red. Ah, so he had decided to drink last night after all. He wore the scowl that Erik knew meant a hangover was raging in his head.

Javert pointed to Christine. "You. Come with me."

Christine's shoulders set. She took a step backwards. "Me?"

"Are you deaf? Yes, girl, come with me."

Christine didn't move. "Why?"

Erik's gaze snapped to Javert. The man wasn't even interacting with him, and his heart was racing.

Javert's dark eyes narrowed. "First, Christine, you will learn not to question me. If I say you are coming with me, then you are coming with me. I don't need to explain myself to you. Are we clear?"

Christine nodded rapidly, her face reddening.

Why did Erik suddenly feel so helpless? So weak?

"Second," the man continued, "if you must know, the newlyweds do not want your clothes, as you seem to be a bit too thin for the wife, but they will take your blankets. I hardly think that your used dresses will sell for much, and since I certainly don't want to smell you without fresh clothes, you are coming with me to pick up the clothes you stupidly left behind. And then, I am going to discuss with you how you will be paying for your stay in this caravan. Now, let's go!"

Christine hesitated for only a moment, and then followed Javert out into the sunlight. She cast one last wide-eyed glance at Erik, closed the door, and was gone.

\- - - - - - - - - -

She only returned once to drop off a sack full of her dresses and undergarments, but did so hurriedly. Christine was gone for the rest of the day.

Erik spent his day as he usually did: writing music in his book. Reading the half dozen novels he'd begged Javert for over the years. Sketching on spare paper. These activities did a fairly decent job of distracting him from what was sure to come that night.

This was, after all, the first day of the carnival. The clansmembers had been busy all day preparing for their gadjo patrons, putting on their best clothes and instructing their children to stay inside.

It was nearing sunset, and soon enough the clock on the wall told him that it was time that he prepared for his own act. Javert had long since stopped reminding him that he couldn't be late. He knew the consequences well; bruises and cuts did benefit the aesthetic of his performance, but it wasn't something Erik generally sought out. The carnival had started already, several hours ago, but Javert liked the atmosphere of night for Erik's performance. Erik's performance was at 9 o'clock, once every twenty-four hours. Limiting the performances to one per night, Javert explained, allowed for expensive tickets and a quality show. It creates a factor of being scarce, which is attractive to customers.

Erik kept his head down as he made his way to his performance tent. To his surprise, another, identical tent had been erected beside his. Odd.

Deciding that he had a few minutes to spare, he made his way to the tent's entrance, and out came Javert with Christine, his fat hand holding her slight wrist in a death grip. Javert spotted Erik several meters in front of him, and his face contorted.

"What the hell are you doing, boy?"

Erik glanced a moment at Christine, who didn't seem to register that he was there. Her eyes were glazed over, and her body was surprisingly relaxed. No. Not relaxed.

Limp. Like she didn't care where Javert dragged her.

Erik pulled his eyes away from her and looked at his master, and then cast his gaze down on instinct. "I was curious. I apologize."

"Get your bony ass in your own tent, boy. What on this shit-filled Earth are you thinking? If you're not ready by the time guests arrive, you can expect that hideous face of yours to get even uglier."

"Yes, sir," he whispered, and resisted the urge to look one more time at Christine as he strode into his performance tent.

The clansmen had set up the tent; Javert paid them well to do it. Even now, he didn't trust Erik to do a decent job of it, not that Erik minded in the slightest. His master wanted him to get there early only as a show that he was ready. In reality, the only thing he had to do until performance was sit in silence. He used this time to escape reality as well. In his mind, his fantasies, he pictured himself handsome. He was an architect - no, painter - no, musician - ten years older, in Paris. He had a pretty girl with him; not the most beautiful girl in France, but someone he considered to be so, because he loved her so much. And, in return, she loved him. Sometimes, he imagined that she loved him more than anything.

These thoughts were, of course, a fantasy. The place he went when his life became far too dark to bear. And in times of silence, like this. When he escaped into his own head, the hour between his arrival into the tent, and the show itself, seemed far too short.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Someone had pissed on him. Pissed on him. He'd never had that happen before. And in response, standing on the sidelines, Javert had laughed. A deep, gleeful, belly laugh. If there were ever a time that Erik might have let go of his dignity and cried in front of those people, it would have been then.

When Javert finally walked out after the last patrons left the tent, the man commented that Erik smelled horribly and should do something about it. And, when Erik was finally alone in the tent, he removed his mask, folded it, stuffed it into his mouth and screamed.

There was no escape. No matter where he went, no matter what he did, he would never find a home, a family. He would never find love. He would always, always be alone. No amount of fantasizing would change that. No amount of kindness that he gave others would win him even an ounce of affection or acceptance in return.

Erik crumpled to the ground, continuing to scream into the mask, letting himself rock back and forth on his knees like the child he once was, forced into this cage for the first time. He screamed until he was sure doing so any longer would ruin his voice. Good. Then maybe he would be useless to Javert. Maybe he wouldn't be able to charge as much. Maybe, just maybe, Javert would finally just kill him, just let him die.

He let himself fall onto his side.

Erik took a deep, shaky breath and closed his eyes. He had to get up. He had to count to ten and then get up.

Ten.

Lying here was doing no good.

Nine.

He needed to get out of these clothes.

Eight. Seven.

He needed to burn these disgusting clothes.

Six. Five. Four.

He needed to wash himself; he needed to be clean.

Three. Two.

His eyes opened. Christine. He needed to check on Christine. He saw in his mind's eye her absent expression, the way her body moved like a puppet as she was pulled from the tent.

One.

Slowly, he forced himself to stand, and removed the mask from his mouth. He unfolded it and tied it again to his face. Inhaling deeply, he set his shoulders back and strode from the tent, heading to the only home he knew.

He opened the caravan door to the darkness inside, and at first he thought that perhaps Christine wasn't there; perhaps Javert had given her back her caravan. But as his eyes adjusted, he saw her lying on the bed, curled into a ball, unmoving. Her shoes were still on, and she had even donned an extra piece of clothing, a woolen jacket. He furrowed his brow. It was the middle of July; hardly weather for a jacket.

"Mademoiselle?" he said, closing the door behind him. She didn't respond, but instead curled even tighter. He went to the table and lit the candle. From this angle, he could see that her eyes were open and her small fingers were interlaced underneath her head.

He tried again. "Mademoiselle Daae."

She closed her eyes.

"Christine," he said, and took a step toward the bed. At that movement, at his slight advancement toward her, she seemed to be filled suddenly with electricity. She bolted upright and widened her eyes at him. He took two steps back and put up his hands. She stared at him and pulled her legs close to her chest, watching his eyes, his hands, his entire body.

She looked like a cornered animal.

He felt a sudden humming in his ears. "What happened?" he asked, barely above a whisper.

She grimaced and looked at her knees.

There was a long, deafening silence, and all Erik could hear was his own question in his head. What happened what happened what happened Jesus Christ what happened?

"Christine," he said, his tone lower. "What did he do?"

She shook her head. Her voice shook as she spoke. "He didn't...he didn't technically do anything."

A long silence passed between them, in which nobody moved. Erik's chest rose and fall rapidly.

"Then," he said, gritting his teeth, "what did he make you do?"

Christine's eyes closed again, and he saw that pale, slightly green expression on her face again. "I'm going to be sick, Erik."

He went to the spot under the bed where the chamber-pot was left and brought it out for her. She heaved into the pot, but nothing came up. She heaved several more times, and all the while Erik could only stare at her. What the devil did he do?

At last, when it seemed that she was finished dry heaving, she let the empty chamber pot fall onto the mattress, lay on her back, and cried, wailing. Erik's mouth fell open. It was an awful, awful sound. She sounded like a dying animal. The noise that came out of her was full of so much pain, that Erik could only be reminded of his own pain, and he fell to his knees.

"Christine," he said, and he realized that he was crying behind his mask, his voice wavering, "what does he want you to do to make money?"

She gasped as she let her cries die down to a whimper. She looked at him, and in her eyes she saw what he'd been feeling earlier. She was trapped.

He wanted so badly in that moment to hold her, to tell her that he understood, but he couldn't move. He doubted she'd want that from him anyway.

"He...he made me..." she breathed. She closed her eyes tightly. "He made me touch him. And, when I did a poor job, he punished me by making me use my mouth."

Erik's blood froze in his veins. His mind emptied of anything except for a sudden, ice-cold rage.

She opened her eyes and tears poured from them. "He wants me to touch guests. He wants me to massage them...everywhere. And he's going to charge a lot of money for it." She bared her teeth. "I don't want to do it, Erik. What do I do? I don't know what to do."

Erik stared at her for a few moments longer, and then, without another word, he bolted out of the caravan before he could think about what he was doing.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Erik pounded his fist on his master's caravan door.

"Javert!" he shrieked. "Javert, open the door!"

Without warning, the door flung open, and there Javert stood, his face a mask of rage. That was fine. Erik was sure his face looked the same underneath the leather.

The man's nostrils flared, and he exhaled. He'd been drinking. "How dare you..."

"You can't make her do it!" he yelled. "Don't make her. Torture me all you like, I don't care, I'm used to it. But she's done nothing to deserve this!"

Javert watched him for a moment, and then smirked. "Ah, so she's told you? Did she tell you I plan to call the attraction The Virgin Rose. Think of it as...the complement to your attraction. Guests go to you to feel disgust; they go to her to feel pleasure. No one's allowed to touch her of course, and she's only allowed to use her hands. But still, someone as pretty and pure as her; she'll be getting dozens of men a night for that service."

Dozens of men.

"You can't," Erik whispered.

"I can do whatever I please!" Javert sneered. "And I can picture it now. A beautiful, naked young lady giving attention to men of all ages, sizes, and backgrounds. You know," he mused, and took a step toward Erik, "I showed her exactly what I wanted her to do. I took her into the tent and taught her. And every time she got it wrong, I made her take that pretty mouth of hers and-"

"You pig!" Erik screamed. Before he could stop himself, in the hot, red rage that had formed in his stomach, he launched himself at Javert and shoved into his chest. The man only staggered back a few paces before catching himself on the door handle. Erik had no time to make another move when Javert took his hand and slapped Erik so hard across the face that he fell backwards, his cheek stinging under the mask. He gripped his own face and looked up at the man who was now looming over him. Javert grabbed him by the shirt scruff and lifted him up off the ground; he slapped him again across the bruised cheek. Erik hissed in pain.

"Listen to me, boy. There's a reason I put her in that caravan with you. Do you know why?"

Erik stared at him through hateful eyes.

"I put her in there," Javert continued, "because she's safe in there. Safe from other men. Alone in her caravan, she could have received any and all kinds of male visitors, both wanted and unwanted. In my caravan, well, I certainly don't want her."

"What do you mean, you don't want her?" Erik demanded. "You made her..."

"That was a learning tactic for her," he explained with a smile. "I can't hit her like I hit you. I need her body pristine. Bruises simply won't do. And, no, I don't want her. If I wanted her, I wouldn't be having her do this. I don't share my women. And I certainly don't want her losing her virginity. That would be false advertisement for my patrons. I am an honest businessman. Besides..." he let go of Erik, whose back connected with the ground painfully, "any man worth his salt can smell when a woman has been with other men. My guests would call that bluff a mile away."

Erik closed his eyes. Revulsion washed over him like a foul wave.

"I have her in the caravan with you, boy, because I know she will remain untouched in there. You won't touch her - even if she wanted you, which she would never, you'd be too afraid for your own hide and hers to risk it. I would punish the very souls out of the two of you if you even went near her. I also know that the clansmen of this camp are too afraid of you to go within throwing distance of where you live, so she is certainly safe from them."

Erik opened his eyes again and stared past Javert into the starry sky above. "Use me instead," he said flatly.

"What the hell does that mean?" He snorted. "What, you want to whore yourself out? I don't think anyone will be interested."

"I can make more money for you. I will make up the difference."

"You already make money for me. I don't think getting you naked will help that." He barked a hideous laugh. "Did I hit you too hard?"

Erik sat up and looked straight into his master's face. "Do something else, to heighten the excitement of the show. Lengthen it. Whip me. Many of the guests like to see me humiliated as it is. Play off of that."

"I might just," Javert said, raising an eyebrow. "That doesn't change the fact that Christine will make me very rich. Now, I sincerely hope you get over this care you seem to be forming for that girl. Don't think for a second that she would return it, that she would be offering to suffer for you, that way you're doing for her."

Javert kicked him in the side, and Erik doubled over, groaning.

"Get out of my sight, boy. You still smell like piss."


	4. Chapter 4

Christine heard the sound of the caravan door opening and closing before she opened her eyes. When she did, she saw, in the candlelight, Erik walking stiffly toward his personal chest to take out clothes. She'd smelled the urine on him when he'd come in before, and now she could smell it again.

When Erik was done in the washroom, now in clean clothing, he went to his makeshift bed and lay down, grunting in pain and clutching his side as he did so. He shifted a bit until he found a comfortable position on his back, and he closed his eyes.

There was silence, save for the ticking of the clock and the very faint sounds of the carnival still going on, away from where the clan kept their caravan homes. Christine sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed but remained sitting. "Erik?" she whispered.

Erik opened his eyes and looked at her. She saw a flicker of despair in them, and she balled up her fists in the blanket.

"Where did you go?" she asked. "You left so suddenly and came back almost limping."

He stared at her for a few more seconds and then looked up at the ceiling. "I tried."

"Tried what?"

"I tried to stop what he plans to do with you. I don't want that for you."

Christine watched him, his chest rising and falling, his eyes motionless as they gazed up at the ceiling. People were afraid of this boy. Hated him, were cruel to him. Meanwhile, his intentions were never anything but good. He'd been nothing but kind since she'd come into his home; he hadn't needed to be. He hadn't even asked for anything in return.

"Did Javert hurt you?" she pressed.

He was silent, and still, as if deliberating what to say. Then, he said, "He kicked me. And hit me. I am all right, though."

Her stomach dropped. "Did he...I mean, I smelt it when you walked in. Did he..."

"No, that was a guest," he whispered. "That's never happened before, but I'm sure it will happen again eventually. I'm sorry if it offended you."

Christine felt, again, the need to vomit. She swallowed. She was not going to be sick again; she refused. "Erik," she said, her voice shaking, "Erik, I'm sorry."

He let out a tiny laugh. "Mademoiselle, I do appreciate the sentiment, but I don't need any pity..."

"No," she objected, a bit too loudly. He turned his head slowly to her. "No," she repeated, more softly this time. "I actually do have something to apologize for."

Erik sat up slowly, clutching his side and grimacing as he did so. He brought his feet inward, tucking them under his legs, so that he was sitting in a criss-cross style. His back was straight, hands on his knees, as he looked at her expectantly.

Christine sighed. She was silent for what seemed like several minutes, but was probably more like a few seconds, and then she spoke. "When I was...when we were...children, I visited you when you performed."

He nodded and cast his eyes down. "Yes, I remember."

She took a sharp intake of breath. "You do?"

"Yes. You were the only other child in there." Erik had starting picking at his nails, and Christine watched as his bony fingers moved. She'd heard people compare him to a spider; quick movements and rail-thin body. But the way he moved was always intentional; graceful, she realized. Long and quiet and graceful, like a stag. She wondered if she had ever heard anyone compare him to a something majestic like that, or if all he ever heard was pest.

"Has anyone ever tried to stop it from happening?" she asked, turning her attention to his masked face.

"Some have tried. A few have proclaimed it's cruel. No one's physically tried to help; they just walk away talking about the cruelty of it. But all that's done is dissuade anyone kind from seeing the show; as if boycotting it will do anything at all. There are too many people wanting to be shocked and disgusted and scared. But because all of the good people think not visiting my tent will make a statement, I tend to get unkind people."

Her eyes stung; a prickling started behind them. "That night. I did ask for them to stop..."

"I remember that too." He nodded slowly. "Thank you."

No, Erik, don't thank me.

"I ran away." Tears leaked from her eyes, and she brushed them away. He finally looked at her, at the tears on her cheeks. She couldn't read his expression; the mask on his face didn't help. "I ran away and left you there, left you to whim of all of those people throwing things at you, all those people saying that your pretty voice was unnatural coming from you, all those people treating you less than human."

"I was glad you did." His voice was steady. "I wish everyone would run away."

"I shouldn't have come at all." She sobbed. The emotions she was feeling...they hurt. They hurt terribly. And yet, there was something freeing about finally admitting the thing that had weighed on her conscience all these years. "It wasn't right. I knew you didn't want to be doing it, and I went to watch anyway. I took advantage of your pain. I'm so sorry. I contributed to the problem, and I should have spoken to you years ago, but I never did. I was too scared of...of..." She closed her eyes, and wiped her face with her sleeve. Christine took a shaky breath. "I was afraid that you would hate me. I was ashamed. That's why I threw up last night. Not because of your face. I don't care what you look like. I know you don't believe me, but I really don't care what your face looks like. I threw up because I felt like a terrible person; because I knew I had helped hurt you and never even said sorry."

She continued to breathe in and out deeply, letting her emotions subside. When she finally opened her eyes, Erik's eyes were shining with something she couldn't place.

"You're kind," he whispered. "I don't hate you."

Christine's shoulders relaxed with the release of a tension she hadn't even noticed within her. "Thank you," she said, and meant it sincerely. "You're kind, too."

"You see me as a person," Erik continued, saying the words as if he were coming to a profound realization. "Everyone else looks at me with pity or fear or distrust or hate. No one's ever just looked at me as if...I'm a person. As if I'm a human like them."

Christine looked at him in the candlelight, looked at his expression of wonder, and she felt a jolt. She liked being near him. She liked his company. Really, deeply liked it. Christine didn't want to say this, though. She wasn't sure how he would take it. And so she said the next best thing:

"I'd like to be your friend, Erik."

Erik went entirely still. For a frightening moment, Christine wondered if perhaps that had been to forward, or perhaps he didn't want to get to know her at all. Then, his voice sounded strained as he replied, "I'd like that."

Christine felt the corners of her mouth perk up a fraction. "I'd like you to be my friend as well."

To her surprise, Erik let out a single note, a cross between a gasp and a laugh. "I'd like that too, Mademoiselle."

Though her lips didn't part, her smile grew to meet her eyes; she was actually feeling a slice of happiness since her father's death. Erik's eyes shone brighter. "You can call me Christine, you know."

"Christine," he responded, and she shivered. He'd said her name before, but the way he said it now sounded like honey on his tongue, and she remembered what his singing voice had been like when he was a child. She wondered eagerly what it was like now. He watched her reaction with interest, and had opened his mouth to say something else, when the door to the caravan flew open.

Erik and Christine both bolted upright, Erik clutching his side, as Javert stood in the doorway. His face was red and his eyes bloodshot. Lines of rage were painted on his face as he bared his teeth in a frightening frown.

Immediately, disgust flooded Christine. Her mind went blank of anything but revulsion, panic, and blind anger. She couldn't think anymore. All she could feel was the sudden speed of her heart. Images of what she'd done to him - what he'd made her do that day - flooded into her head, and she resisted the urge to fall to the floor and curl into a ball.

He scanned the bed, the table, and upon not seeing Erik there, he stared straight at her. She felt like she would faint.

"Where is he?" Javert yelled, spit flying from his mouth.

Her legs, her arms, her entire body felt so weak, so powerless. She could only stare. Her palms were slick with sweat, her hands shaking terribly. Make it stop, she thought, though she knew nothing was happening. Yet.

"I said..." Javert advanced on her, and she fell back down to sit on the bed, her legs giving way beneath her. "Where is that skeletal little demon?" He lifted a beefy hand to reach for her, when Erik's voice sounded loudly behind him as he stood in front of his makeshift bed.

"I'm here."

Demon. Christine watched Erik. His head was held high, though she knew he was feeling the very same fear as her. He is no demon. Javert is the demon. Javert is the monster.

Javert turned to look behind him. He spotted Erik and went to him, grabbing him by the neck. Christine stilled.

"Do you realize, boy, how much money you've cost me?" Javert growled. "Apparently, we were a bit too loud in our conversation earlier. A member of the clan overheard us, told the leader, and he's banned me from my plans for her." He inclined his head to Christine.

Erik swallowed underneath his master's grip. His hands were clenched at his side. His eyes were darting between Javert and Christine. "They would have found out, anyway. They would have-"

"Don't you think I know that?" Javert roared, and threw Erik to the ground.

Christine gasped. Erik's eyes met hers and he rasped, "Go."

She didn't move, and Javert said, looking at her as well, "Oh, no, I think it's good for her to see this. I think it's a good demonstration of what happens when my property disrespects me." He turned his attention back to Erik. The man kicked him, hard, in the side that he'd been clutching. Erik screamed in pain.

Christine's mouth opened to form the word Stop. But it wouldn't come out. She felt as if she were that tiny child, watching Erik's torture, all over again; helpless and cowardly.

"My plan was, you stupid boy, to do the very same thing I did with you. Our clan is a modest one - I knew they wouldn't like the idea of any sort of whore in their carnival, especially not one they'd seen grow up. But I wanted to show them just how much money I could make in only one night with my attraction new attraction - the very same way I convinced them to let me display you to the public. But because of you and your need to be some kind of hero, that plan has lost its every chance."

Javert kicked his sore side again, and Erik moaned pitifully. Christine felt, suddenly, a cold sensation overtake her. Numbness. She was numb. She couldn't feel any emotion at all.

The man continued, "You'll have to make up the difference, you know - for the new tent I bought and for the loss of the girl. You'll be paying that debt back for a very, very long time. Christine will have to make it up as well. I'll merely have her continue the duties that she learned today; I'll have her show her gratitude for providing food and shelter. I find I actually quite liked how her hands and mouth felt...Oh." He grinned as Erik's eyes burned with hatred. "And I can see that you offered her your bed while you slept on the floor. It's really time to stop playing the role of the savior prince, you little freak. You'll never be the prince. You will always, always, be the monster."

Javert knelt down so that his legs straddled Erik. "I think..." he said, "I will take you up on your offer of whipping you during the show. I'm not sure if I'll charge for it, but I'll count it toward your debt paid." Javert's hand gripped Erik's chin and forced him to look at him. "And I think perhaps I will start collecting my debt now."

Without warning, Javert clenched his fist and rammed it into the side of Erik's face. And into his stomach. And anywhere his hand could reach. Erik grunted with every impact.

A ringing began in Christine's ears as a thought came to her, sudden and clear. This was how things were now. This was her life. There was nowhere to run to, and nothing she could do. And Erik...Erik would have to endure more suffering because of her. Both of them were at the whim of someone who'd kill Erik if it meant he'd make more money, who'd sell Christine's entire body if his payoff was fancier meals and nicer clothes.

The numbness turned to a feeling she'd never had before.

She wanted to end him. She wanted, needed, to end his life. Javert didn't deserve to live.

"Christine..." Erik moaned through the pounding of Javert's fist. "Christine, go..."

"Shut your damned mouth!" Javert barked, intensifying the onslaught.

Christine felt herself get up from the bed and toward the counter of the tiny kitchen. She watched her hand reach for the knife. She felt her feet move toward Javert, saw that Javert didn't notice her behind him and that Erik's eyes were closed.

She watched her own hand drive the knife into Javert's neck.


	5. Chapter 5

Erik closed his eyes and went to that place. In fact, he went deeper into that place than he thought he ever had. That imaginary, beautiful, peaceful place inside his mind. Only this time, the girl had clear features, rather than a vague pretty face. He saw Christine. Beautiful, with curling golden hair and bright blue eyes, and smiling at him. At Erik. And only at Erik. He knew - knew - that would never be a reality. But he couldn't help it. He'd fallen in love with her the moment she asked him for his friendship; the moment he realized she saw him not as something to be pitied or feared, but as a person. An equal.

In this moment, he didn't care if she returned his feelings.

In this moment, all he wanted was to know that she was safe.

"Christine..." he moaned, as Javert beat bruises into his skin. "Christine, go..."

If Christine could go somewhere, hide, until his master's anger subsided, perhaps she would avoid pain as well. He'd take a thousand beatings before he watched her suffer any pain; he'd told her that he wanted to be her friend, and a friend he would be.

"Shut your damned mouth!" Javert yelled, and he felt the beating become harder, faster.

This would be over soon. It always was. There was always an end. And what was more, his body had always been shockingly, unnaturally resilient. He was able to push through most pain, except when it was unexpected. He'd always been able to bounce right back, no matter how hard the beating, be it from Javert or his own mother. Maybe God meant for him to endure pain. If Erik could just stay in his imagination, and ignore the sharp throbbing all over his body, he could-

Javert stilled above him, emit a gurgling sound like he was choking on water, and reared back. Erik opened his eyes to see that the man had fallen onto his back and was clutching at his throat.

No. Not choking on water.

Choking on blood.

Sticking out of the side of his neck was a knife. His kitchen knife, he realized. And Christine was standing, her face blank of emotion, over him.

Javert pulled the knife from his neck, but this only caused the blood to pour out faster. Erik, his entire body sore, scrambled to his feet, and watched as a pool of red grew underneath his master's body. Javert's eyes rolled back in his head and he continued to thrash.

Erik had to think. Quickly. There was only a matter of days before someone would realize Javert was gone, before they'd come looking for him here, despite however much the clan avoided his caravan like it was cursed. Even if he could move the body unnoticed, hide it somewhere, there was no way he could clean up this blood. And surely fingers would be pointed at him if Javert was suddenly missing even without evidence.

Christine swayed on her feet.

Javert was currently unconscious. He'd be dead in a matter of moments. Erik, grunting from the pain in his stomach and side, knelt down to his master's pants pocket and drew out the keys he kept there. He stood and looked at Christine. Her eyes were wide but her face was entirely unreadable.

"We have to go," he whispered. She didn't respond.

Christine's clothes were still in her sack. Good. Erik didn't have any bags - everything was always right here in this caravan - but that was fine. He didn't want to waste time packing any of his own clothes or items. Those could be bought later. The only thing he wouldn't leave without was his book of music. He took the book and placed it tenderly into Christine's sack of clothing. When he looked at the man on the floor, he saw that Javert's eyes were glazed over with the expression of death.

Slowly, Erik stooped down to pick up the knife. He went to the kitchen counter and found a rag. Carefully, he wiped the blood from the knife and wrapped it in the cloth, and then turned to Christine. She was staring at Javert's corpse.

"Christine," Erik said, as he slid the now-sheathed knife into the sack as well.

Slowly, she brought her eyes to his. They were empty.

He approached her and gently took her wrist. She didn't object. With a wave of nausea, he thought about how she had looked much the same way after Javert made her...

Erik shook his head. Not the time. "We have to go," he said softly. "We have to go now."

Christine nodded, and Erik pulled her through the caravan and out the door, his right hand on her wrist and his left holding the bag. It was near-perfect dark, as the clouds had rolled over the moon. Everyone who worked the carnival was still entertaining guests, and everyone who stayed behind was in their homes, asleep or getting ready for bed. Still, Erik kept to the shadows, silent-footed, checking behind him for Christine every few seconds. Her eyes were cast down, and she stumbled, but followed where he led her.

They at last reached Javert's caravan. He instructed her to stay quiet (she didn't respond) and as quietly as he could, he unlocked the door and stepped in. There was still a candle going, illuminating the space. Erik was surprised to find how clean and organized it looked. He looked at Christine and put his finger to his lips as he pulled her in. He pulled the sack in as well and closed the door.

"Hopefully," he whispered, "if anyone did see us, they will think we are here per Javert's request. Still, it's best if we take what we need and run."

But where does he keep the money?

Erik scanned the room, and then remembered the keys. He pulled them from his pocket and...yes! There was one tiny key, small enough to fit into...

He spotted it, and his feet were moving before he could steady his shaky hands. This might work. This might actually work out. He went to the wooden desk against the wall and placed the key into the keyhole of the top drawer. His heart sunk. Empty. He tried the second drawer. Still empty.

Please. Erik's heart hammered. Please, please, please.

Erik tried the bottom drawer, and found what looked liked dozens of ripped pages of a book stacked to the brim. He started collecting the pages until the pages gave way to... Erik could have laughed with sudden, intense relief. Several large stacks of paper franc notes, most likely more than Javert had reported to the clan, were stuffed into the drawer.

Erik nearly tripped as he dashed for the sack he'd dropped by the door. Christine was still standing there, looking down at the ground. He would speak to her about what she was feeling; he would, but it would have to be when they were far from here. He brought the sack to the desk and took the francs out three stacks at a time, stuffing them into the brown bag. When he finished, he tied the sack closed, pleased with its weight in his grip, and went to her. He took her wrist again.

"We need to leave and find the nearest city. I found enough money that we could find somewhere to live, some food. But we need to go now. Do you understand?"

She nodded lightly, so subtly that it was almost indistinguishable.

"We're near Paris," she whispered.

Erik blinked. "We are?" he said.

"Yes," she continued, her voice a monotone. "It's north. An hour's walk. I recognize the land we're on. Whenever we stopped here, my father would take me into the city and..." She trailed off. Her hand had started to shake.

"It's all right," he soothed. "It's all right. Come on."

She let him pull her from the caravan. He closed the door behind him, and he led her away from that wretched place. Forever.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Erik had known the clan had stopped in a woodsy, farmland area of France. But he hadn't realized that they were in the outskirts of Paris. He'd never really cared where they were. It made no difference to him.

His eyesight at night had always been extraordinary - one of the many things his dear mother absolutely despised, claiming it was a mark of the devil to see in the dark so well. He'd led her through the trees surrounding the carnival, warning her of every loose root, stone, and dip of the land. And when they were sufficiently away from the carnival, he led her to the road surrounded by farms. And walked north.

It was silent, save for the sounds of crickets and Christine's breathing. Every so often, her breath would hitch and become ragged, and he'd stop and ask if she was all right. She only ever nodded and brought her breath back to normal. Erik's own body was still stiff with pain, but he ignored it and pushed forward.

As they walked, the land became more densely populated with houses and businesses, until they'd reached buildings as high as three stories, pushed up against one another.

The city.

He branched off of the road and onto smaller streets, and finally turned to look into an alleyway. Empty. Perfect. Erik pulled her to stand up against the wall of a stone building, and dropped the sack down onto the ground. He finally let go of her wrist, and the air felt cold against his fingers where he'd been touching her skin.

"We need to stop here," he said. "We will have to find somewhere to stay tomorrow, but we need to stop and rest."

Christine looked around her, at the dirty street beneath her feet, the clothelines above her and the half-clouded night sky above, and then looked back at Erik.

"Here?" she whispered.

Erik nodded. "It's too late to find anywhere we can pay to stay. The city's asleep. I know it's not ideal. We don't have to sleep. But we...I...need to rest. I'm...I'm in a bit of pain. I will be fine but I need to rest."

Christine's eyes snapped to his. "Of course," she said softly. "I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "Don't apologize." He leaned against the wall of the building and allowed himself to slide down, grimacing, until he was siting against the wall, his legs outstretched in front of him. "If you'd like to continue standing, you can, but I need to sit. I hope you don't mind."

She shook her head and watched him for a moment. And then, she lowered herself so that she was sitting right beside him, her knees against her chest. Erik's heart leapt for a moment in his chest. She was so close.

They sat in silence like that for several minutes. Erik had closed his eyes, feeling the painful thrum of his bruises.

"Erik?" Christine's voice sounded next to him.

He opened his eyes and looked at her. She was staring straight ahead of her, not looking at anything in particular. "Yes?" he said.

She was silent again for half a minute. Erik looked away, wondering after a while if he'd imagined that she said his name.

"I killed him," she breathed.

Erik looked at her again. In the darkness, he could see that she'd pulled her knees even tighter against her chest. "I know."

"I killed him." Her voice shook. "I'm a murderer." The pace of her breathing increased, her intake and outtake of breath becoming shorter and more pronounced, audible, as if she were struggling to breathe. He watched as her arms wrapped fully around her legs and she rocked back and forth. She hadn't been emotionless, he realized. She'd simply pushed her emotions deep down for the last hour, and now they were bubbling up in full force.

Erik knew this feeling. He'd felt the exact same way the day he'd been forced into the cage, told he'd be forced to reveal his face to hundreds of people a week. Blind, sheer panic. He wanted to touch her shoulder, to pull her close, but he didn't want to make her more uncomfortable than she already was. So he comforted her the way he'd comforted himself all those nights alone in that tent as a child.

He sang.

Rather, he hummed. It was soft, only loud enough for her to hear. It was a made-up, improvised tune, but he chose the notes specifically to be calming, simple and melodic. A lullaby; what he'd consider a lullaby, anyway. His mother sang as well, but never to him.

Christine's shaking stopped, and slowly, so did her rapid breathing. She turned her head steadily to face Erik and only watched him while he hummed. He wasn't at all surprised that she had calmed down. He knew his voice had that effect. Something about it put people into a trance; the opposite, really, of his face. A face from Hell and a voice from Heaven. That was, after all, the whole point of the attraction Javert forced him into.

Had. Had forced him into.

As he hummed, it dawned on him that he would never, ever have to show another person his face again. Not if he didn't choose to.

Christine called herself a murderer. He wanted to call her a savior.

The thought of killing Javert had come to him before. He'd fantasized about it, what it would be like to watch him die. But fear stopped him. Fear of being caught and hanged. Fear of being homeless and starving on the street with no way to make money except for doing exactly what he was doing at the carnival, for even stolen money would run out; and if he continued to steal, there was no guarantee he would stay free. He'd run away once as a child, and look how that turned out. It was fear of the unknown that kept him with Javert; at least with him, he had food and shelter as a guarantee. If he was to be alone and in pain, it might as well be somewhere he was familiar with.

Erik closed his eyes as he hummed. He rested his head against the wall. And then he felt it. Christine's head leaning against his shoulder. His voice hitched. Her breathing was even, and even in just the weight of her head, he could feel that her entire body was relaxed.

Asleep. She was asleep. And sleeping against him.

He looked up, and realized he'd never noticed just how beautiful the night sky was before. As a cloud rolled over the stars, he closed his eyes again.

"Goodnight," he whispered.


	6. Chapter 6

Nadir Khan preferred the night shift.

Police work was notoriously more stressful at night, but in this part of the city, the southernmost outskirts of Paris, there was surprisingly little crime. There was a community here; people respected one another. Folks were more inclined to ask for help rather than take it by force. For that, he was grateful. Yes, this mid-tier job was a definite step down from his Chief of Police role in Persia, but there was a reason he immigrated to France. There was a reason he turned down the more prestigious role here as well.

At fifty years of age, excitement wasn't an ambition anymore.

And in this part of Paris, in the nighttime, it was peaceful. Warm summer nights, stars winking down on him, the soft sounds of people retiring into their beds, into their lovers' arms; it was what he needed in order to forget. He needed to forget.

As he made his rounds into the city's border, a movement caught his eye. Rounding the corner off of the main road was a black-haired boy, maybe fifteen or sixteen, a large brown sack in one hand and a girl's arm in another. He pulled her along, swiftly, as if on a mission. He moved a bit stiffly, and she was like an automaton, no real say in where she was pulled. And on the boy's face, he realized, was a brown leather mask.

Nadir furrowed his brow, and was about to follow them to where they went, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned, and saw that it was a police baton resting on his shoulder. Attached to the club was Adam Marchand, a fellow member of the force, a twenty-five year old boy with auburn hair and sparkling green eyes. His bearded face was dotted with freckles and his stomach protruded slightly over his belt. He grinned his wide, infectious grin.

"You're under arrest," said Adam matter-of-factly.

Nadir grinned back. "Oh? And why, I ask, is that?" He looked briefly to where the two children had run off to, and made the decision to say nothing. He would check on them himself in a moment; no need to get the police...well, the other police...involved until he had a solid idea of what they were up to.

Adam held up his other hand, and in between his fingers were two beer bottles, both already opened. "For not toasting the night with me!"

Nadir laughed. "Monsieur Marchand, how many times do I have to tell you this? I don't drink alcohol."

"And," the boy said, "how many times do I have to tell you that I think that is a ridiculous rule to give yourself? You're old. Live a little."

He raised his eyebrow. "Excuse me, but fifty is hardly old. If I'm old, then you're a child."

The boy removed his baton from Nadir's shoulder and placed it into its holder at his belt, and moved one of the bottles to his other hand. "And that's why I call you Papa."

"Please never call me Papa."

Adam chuckled. "Whatever you say, then, grandfather. I suppose I will simply have to drink both of these myself." Indeed, the boy tipped both bottles into his mouth, looking like an absolute drunkard. Nadir shook his head.

"You're lucky that I like you enough not to report this."

Adam pulled the bottles away from his mouth. "That would surely be a fire-able offense."

"Oh, it certainly would."

Adam smiled widely. "You know, you still haven't asked me what I'm toasting."

Nadir crossed his arms. "My apologies. What are you toasting?"

To his surprise, Adam's expression went from one of elfish glee to one of sincere happiness, his grin shrinking to a one-sided smile, and his eyes crinkling. "Meg."

"Meg?" Nadir cocked his head. "Giry?"

Adam nodded.

"What about her?" Though, he knew the answer before the boy said it.

"She said yes." His voice was rich with joy. "I asked her today, with her mother's blessing. We're engaged to be married."

It was Nadir's turn to smile broadly. "Congratulations, my friend." He opened his arms and brought his young colleague in for a hug, and Adam hugged him back, still holding the bottles.

After a few seconds, Adam laughed. "All right, old man, if you want affection so badly, I know there's a few reputable brothels in the heart of Paris..."

Nadir scoffed and pushed him away, and Adam guffawed. "Where are you supposed to be patrolling?" Nadir asked him.

"A few blocks east," he responded and shrugged. "I figured a few minutes away to tell my friend the good news wasn't too extraordinary of a sin."

"Well, make sure you take care of those bottles before you go back to your rounds." He smiled. "I do, in fact, want to see you at work tomorrow."

"Oh, I'm sure." Adam saluted him; rather, he waved the bottle slightly near his forehead at Nadir. "Have an entirely uneventful night, my friend!"

"And you as well."

Nadir watched as Adam turned and walked east, toward his own patrolling area, and then the Persian turned and walked to where the boy and girl had gone. The streets were full of alleyways, and he checked each one of them, until he heard it. So soft he almost didn't pick up on it; an untrained ear might have thought it was simply the wind, or might not have heard it at all.

Humming. Beautiful male humming.

Nadir listened for a moment longer, and then followed the sound a few paces forward until he reached the alleyway, but stopped short of looking in. After a few more notes, the humming hitched and then stopped altogether. He heard a soft voice say "Goodnight" with heartbreaking tenderness, and Nadir narrowed his eyes with a realization.

These children weren't up to any kind of shenanigan. No. These children were sleeping in an alleyway.

Nadir, on instinct, unhooked his baton from his belt and rounded the corner to peer into the alley. In the moonlight, Nadir's eyes, trained for darkness, saw that the boy had his masked face pointed at the sky but that his eyes were closed. The girl's head was on the boy's shoulder. Nadir looked them over, and realized.

Gypsy clothes.

They didn't look like Gypsies. Those people, what little he'd seen of them, were dark like him. These two were pale as the moon shining above, and the girl's hair was bright yellow. Had they integrated themselves into Gypsy culture? Where were their parents? And why were they here?

Nadir stepped into the alleyway. At the sound of his footsteps, the boy opened his eyes and looked at him. Even in the darkness, he could feel, see, the fear on him. Years of police work had given him that sixth sense.

He cleared his throat and took another step forward. "Police," he said lowly.

The girl stirred awake, and upon lifting her head and seeing him, she jumped to her feet and placed her palms against the wall. The boy followed, but was slower to rise, as if he were enduring some sort of bodily injury. Perhaps that was why he'd walked so stiffly. The boy moved in front of the girl as if to shield her from him.

"We don't mean any trouble, sir," said the boy softly. "If this is private land, I apologize. We can move elsewhere."

The Persian looked at the boy. Really looked at him. There was something strangely familiar about him, and it made his stomach turn; not as if he'd seen him in a dream, but rather in a nightmare. A very vivid, distinct, sickening nightmare that he couldn't place.

"This isn't private land," said Nadir. "But it is an open street. How old are the two of you?"

"Sixteen," said the boy.

He nodded slowly. "Where do you live?"

No answer.

"No home?" He stepped forward. "Would I be correct in saying that?"

A pause, and then the boy answered softly, "Yes, sir."

"Yes? Yes, you have a home? Or, yes, I am correct?"

"Yes, you're correct. But we will have a home." The boy took the girl's wrist and bent down to pick up the brown sack on the ground against the wall. He grunted as he lowered his back. "We can go somewhere else." He started to move forward, as if to go around Nadir, keeping his head low. As he walked, recognition struck Nadir like lightning.

The Gypsy clothes. The mask.

Allah above.

"Wait," he ordered, holding his baton straight out to block the boy's way. He studied the boy, who had picked his masked face up to look at Nadir. His eyes were wary, and the girl's face was watching the baton in visible terror.

"Sir?" said the boy.

Nadir narrowed his eyes. "What is your name?"

The masked boy watched him for a few seconds, frozen. "Why do you ask, sir?"

"I simply do. I am not going to hurt you. You are not under arrest. I only want your name."

More silence, and then, "Erik."

"Erik," Nadir repeated. He nodded his head in greeting. "Good to meet you, Erik." He looked behind Erik to the girl. "And your name, my dear?"

"Christine," she whispered. Erik took a fraction of a step backward to hide her further from view.

"It's a pleasure, Christine."

Erik's lower lip thinned. "May we go, sir?"

"Not quite yet." Nadir watched Erik for a few moments longer. "I believe I recognize you, my boy."

Erik's every muscle went rigid. "I..."

"May I see what is under your mask? I only want to confirm."

The boy's breathing stopped. "I'm...sorry, sir," he breathed, "but I won't remove it."

Nadir nodded. "Hiding your identity?"

"No." His voice was strained.

The Persian nodded again, slowly. "I believe you, Erik." They were silent for several seconds, and then Nadir broke it. "You were in that Gypsy carnival around this time last year."

The two of them stared at him with wide eyes. Erik's chest had begun to rise and fall deeply. Christine stepped closer to Erik.

"You were in a cage. You sang, and then removed your mask. And your face..." Nadir trailed off. "Am I getting this wrong? Please tell me if I am."

Erik's mouth opened briefly, and then he closed it, swallowing.

"I am not arresting you," Nadir said gently. He softened his face as much as he could. "You are not in any sort trouble. Whether the answer is yes or no, I am not going to hurt you or lock you up. I give you my word."

Erik only continued to stand, still as a statue, the only movement his deep, deep breath in and out. The boy looked like he was ready to run the moment Nadir made any sudden movement.

"It is my educated guess," Nadir said, "that you do not trust me." He lowered his baton slowly. "I will ask again; were you that performer at the carnival or were you not?"

Erik simply lowered his head. His voice shook. "Is it a crime to be stuffed into a cage and forced to show myself to onlookers?"

"As I said, my boy," Nadir said slowly. "I am not arresting you."

Stuffed into a cage.

Forced to show myself.

Nadir felt sick at the boy's words. He remembered thinking how cruel the attraction at the carnival had seemed, and he'd walked away that night hoping that his life was at least comfortable outside of the performance. He pursed his lips. "I am assuming you have run away." He nodded to the girl. "The both of you."

Erik moved his gaze back to Nadir's. "We only want peace. We don't want to cause trouble. We only want peace."

Nadir crossed his arms. "Are you in any trouble now?"

Erik only looked away. Christine was looking down at the ground.

"Don't answer that last question," said Nadir. "Now, I am assuming that something has happened, something that you don't want to tell me. I am a smart man; I can figure that much out myself. What I am going to do..." He stepped back. "What I am going to do is walk away. I am going to walk back to my own flat a few streets from here, and should I find that you are behind me, I will allow the two of you in for the night. I will do this for two reasons."

Nadir paused and looked at Erik as the boy watched him with wide, unbelieving eyes. He smiled.

"First, I am, as we all know, a police officer. I used to be the Chief of Police for the Shah of Persia, so I am not afraid in the slightest of two children entering my home to sleep. I know they would be smart enough not to steal from me or harm me, as this will not end well for them. And second? I believe you are sharp enough to know, despite the peacefulness of this side of Paris, evil people exist; a dark-hearted person would see the two of you with your bag full of who-knows-what, see Christine's pretty face, and not be nearly as understanding or kind as myself."

Erik straightened turned his gaze to the girl behind him, who was looking back at him with stitched brows.

"So, I am true to my word. I am not arresting you. I am not going to hurt you. And I will walk away now, back to my home." He dipped his head to Erik and Christine. "Have a safe and splendid evening, both of you."

And Nadir did walk away, but slowly; deliberately, ridiculously slowly. He whistled as he walked, unhooking his baton and swinging it as he went.

After a few meters, he heard the sound of two pairs of feet treading behind him.

He smiled and picked up the pace, continuing to whistle his tune.


	7. Chapter 7

She was a murderer. And she was walking into the home of a Parisian police officer.

As they'd followed the dark-skinned policeman through the streets of Paris, Christine had trembled the entire time. What if he was just as bad - or worse - that the person they'd just escaped from? Erik had sensed her fear, for he'd assured her that he wouldn't let anything happen to her; but that the policeman was right; unless they wanted to risk being jumped, this was the safest option. Street alleys really weren't safe, and any inn they could find willing to take two disheveled, beaten, and frightened looking youths this late without involving the police themselves was likely unsafe as well.

When her breathing hitched, he stopped and let her even her breath. When her hands shook, he squeezed them. It was a welcome comfort, one that actually did make her feel safe.

The policeman stopped in front of a reddish-brown stone building, four rows of windows on top of one another. He turned to them. "I don't believe I've introduced myself, have I?"

Erik shook his head. Christine couldn't help but continue staring at the baton at his side. She'd never spoken to the police before tonight.

The policeman smiled. "Nadir Khan." He nodded toward the building and brought a key out of his trousers pocket. "My flat is the ground floor. It's the door on the right after you enter the building. I will let you in, but then I have to continue my rounds."

Christine watched Erik blink at him in surprise. "You're going to leave us alone in your home?" He glanced briefly at her and then back at Nadir. "How do you know we won't rob you?"

In the yellow streetlight, Nadir's eyebrows raised. "Will you rob me?"

Erik squeezed Christine's wrist and took a step back. "No, sir, of course not, but-"

"A wise decision." The policeman turned and unlocked the door. "You two are incredibly easy to spot in a crowd. Robbing a policeman while looking the way you both do would be simply stupid. Of course, I suppose you could always try and maim or kill me so that I can't talk; I've no doubt you have a weapon in that bag."

Christine's stomach turned. The knife. Dizziness ebbed within her.

"No, sir, we wouldn't-" Erik started.

"Good. You wouldn't win that fight. Like I said before, returning my generosity with hostility will not end well for you."

Nadir opened the door of the building and led us into his flat. He lit a lantern, and in the dim glow, Christine saw that the room was furnished in earthy tones; greens, browns, and golds. At the back of the space was a wide archway, where Christine could make out part of a kitchen and dining area. In the space she stood, closest to the front door, burgundy tapestries hung on the walls, the blue and white designs within them intricate and beautiful, like hundreds of tiny flowers blooming. A white couch sat against one wall, facing a fireplace.

"That," said the policeman, pointing to a door on the opposite wall, "is my bedroom. Off-limits. It's locked, so I'll know if you went in. And that-" He pointed to the door next to the couch- "is the guest room. You also see the sofa here. I have no idea of your sleeping arrangements - it is, in fact, not my business - but if one of you decides to sleep on the couch, there are some spare blankets in the dresser of the guest room."

Christine watched Erik take in the room, completely still. She had once lived in a flat like this one, first in Sweden and then here in Paris, before her father decided he would make more money as a travelling musician than playing on street corners. What had Erik's life been like before the Romani camp? Where had he lived?

Erik turned to the policeman, and when he spoke, his voice was small. "You would truly let us stay here?"

Nadir nodded. In the light, Christine was able to get a better look at his features. Skin the color of tanned leather, curled salt-and-pepper hair, a slightly hooked nose, and warm, inky-black eyes. When he spoke, his teeth were perfectly straight and white.

"I would," he said, and gave them a closed-lipped smile. "Now, if you will excuse me, I do have to continue my rounds. I will be back later tonight." He dipped his head curtly, and was out the door, locking the door behind him. Christine watched the door, relieved to find that there was a way to unlock the door from the inside as well. She heard the outer door open and close, and then there was silence.

For the few seconds after the policeman left, Erik and Christine only stood facing the door, Christine's heart hammering in her chest. She was safe. They were safe. So why did she still feel like something was standing directly behind her? Like a strange energy hummed in her body that told her to run while also preventing her from moving at all?

Erik turned to her, still gripping her wrist. "Are you all right?" he whispered.

She nodded. A lie. How could she be?

He nodded in return, scanning her face. Erik sighed and let go of her wrist. "If he's telling the truth - if there's really a guest bed here - then let's go see to it that you get settled in to sleep." He picked up the sack and lantern and made his way to the guest room that Nadir had pointed out. Christine followed, missing the comfort of his hand over her wrist. Normally, being touched for long periods of time frayed her nerves, but circumstances were different.

The guest room was remarkably bare compared to the rest of the richly colored flat. A simple wood-post bed stood in the center of the room, a window over the bed frame. White sheets were tucked into the mattress, looking invitingly comfortable. Erik dropped the sack and went to the only other piece of furniture in the room, a dark wood dresser. He placed the lantern on the surface and pulled a blanket from the top drawer.

"You will have the bed," he said to Christine. "I will take the couch."

"You gave me the bed last time," she whispered.

"And I will give you the bed this time, as well." He closed the drawer with one hand, holding the blanket in the other, and looked at where Christine would sleep. "Will you be warm enough?"

She nodded. She sensed that he would leave the room soon and the thought sent lead to her stomach.

"Good," he said. He went into the sack and drew out his small book and the knife wrapped in a cloth, still holding the blanket. He started to make his way to the door of the room, when Christine stepped forward without thought.

"Wait," she demanded.

Erik whirled and stared at her with large eyes. "Yes?"

"You're..." Her arms stiffened at her side. "You're going to leave me in this room alone?"

He drew a deep intake of breath. "I...need to rest, Christine. I really do. I'm sorry."

"We could both rest in here," she responded softly, feeling heat at her own impulsive words.

His eyes searched hers, but the rest of his body was frozen in place. "There's only one bed in here," he said, his voice taking on a husky undertone. "If you are taking the bed, then where shall I rest?"

Christine didn't respond. Erik was right. Sitting next to him was one matter, but sleeping in a bed together... She looked down.

Erik exhaled. "If you'd like, I can keep the door open a crack. I won't look in if you don't want me to. The couch is right outside this room, so if you need me for anything, I will be able to hear you."

She nodded.

Erik did indeed leave the door open a crack, and she heard him rustling with the blanket on the couch. She listened as the springs and wood of the couch creaked with his weight as he grunted, lying down. She realized he had no sleeping clothes - no clothes at all, except for the ones he was currently wearing - while she had an entire bag's full.

"Erik?" she called.

His voice came through the crack in the doorway. "Yes, Christine, what's wrong?"

"Do you..." She gulped. "Er, do you want one of my nightgowns to wear?" She blushed.

There was a pregnant pause, and then the sound of rich, beautiful laughter came. The heat in her face only intensified.

"No," he said, but she could hear the smile in his voice. "No, that's all right. Thank you. Really. I appreciate it. That was kind of you to offer."

Her flush didn't go away as she pulled one of said nightgowns from the sack and, moving next to the door so as not to be seen, changed into her nightclothes. Not wanting to turn the lantern off, she went to the bed and pulled the sheets back, sitting on the mattress and pulling her legs in.

Christine lay in silence, her heart still hammering in her chest. It was too quiet.

"Erik? she called out softly again.

A beat. "Yes, Christine?"

She didn't say anything. Honestly, she wasn't sure why she'd called his name at all.

"Christine?" he said again, and she heard him begin to rustle within the blanket beyond the door.

"I just wanted to say goodnight," she called.

"Oh," he said, and there was a rustle again as he settled down again. "Goodnight, then."

She closed her eyes.

\- - - - - - - - - -

There was blood. There was so much blood.

Christine stalked through the empty Romani camp. She'd only just made her first kill. Javert. She'd stabbed not only his neck, but his belly, his chest, his arms and legs. And now she was making her way from his caravan to her own. Her hands were stained red. So was her dress, her shoes, her face. Javert's blood, all over her. He'd forced her to pleasure him, and then she had stabbed him everywhere she could. It hadn't felt good. It had felt like nothing. She could feel nothing.

She came to her caravan, opened the door, and stepped inside.

Her father. Standing there.

He saw her, smiled, and opened his arms wide.

Christine approached him, wrapped her arms around him, and plunged the knife deep into his back. He made no sound, no movement, but she could feel the hot stickiness of his blood on her hands. Tears leaked from her eyes and her breath quickened. Again she drove the knife into him. And again. And again. All while they held each other so close.

Her father ran a hand through her hair as she stabbed mercilessly. "Oh, my darling girl," he whispered. "You're a murderer, Christine."

She screamed, unable to stop her arm from driving another wound into his skin.

"Christine," he said again, but his voice was becoming louder. "Christine , Christine-!"

\- - - - - - - - - -

"Christine!"

Her eyes flew open with a loud, horrible gasp. It took a moment for her to realize where she was. Not in her old caravan. And it wasn't her father standing before her. No, she was lying in a bed, in that policeman's flat.

Erik was looming over her, his eyes fearful, taking in her face.

"Erik," she breathed. Something moved across her cheek. She lifted a hand to wipe it away, only to realize it was a tear. Her entire face was wet.

"You were screaming," he said, his voice low. His shoulders were hunched. "I thought something had happened. Then I came in and saw that you were sleeping..." He sighed. "Nightmare?"

She nodded. Her hands were trembling. She could still feel her father's hands through her hair, his blood on her skin, as he whispered "You're a murderer, Christine."

He nodded. His hands, on the bed, made fists in the sheets. "I get them all the time." Slowly, still watching her, he sat down on the very edge of the bed. "I find that getting up and doing something - anything - to occupy yourself helps. It keeps your mind from going there again." He cocked his head. "I can see if Monsieur Khan has any books you can read, if you'd like."

She shook her head. "No," she whispered, her voice trembling horribly. Tears leaked from her eyes again; at that, Erik's own eyes became so sad that she had to look away. "No, just...can you please stay here? At least until I fall asleep. I know you need to rest. I won't ask you to stay the whole night. Just until I fall asleep. I'm sorry, Erik, I know it's asking a lot..." She trailed off and lifted a hand to wipe away a tear.

Erik watched her, his eyes still full of heartbreak. He nodded.

She closed her eyes. "Thank you," she whispered.

He shifted on the bed, moving a bit further in, but taking careful pains not to let his body touch hers, even through the blanket.

And then he began to sing.

Christine had heard his humming earlier, and had been entranced by the beauty of the sound. This was something entirely different; this was the voice of God's angels. It soothed her mind of that persistent feeling that something was about to grab her from behind. It shooed away her need to run, to scream. She forgot about her guilt, her fear. The dream she'd had became a distant memory.

His voice filled her mind until it was the only thing there.


	8. Chapter 8

Christine was asleep.

Erik watched the slow rise and fall of her chest, the serenity on her face. She'd ask for him - for him - to stay with her. She'd wanted him to comfort her. To her, he wasn't some nightmare to run from. She wanted him near, wanted him to drive her nightmares away.

And he would. He knew he would do anything to make her happy. He'd only known her a day and Erik knew, in his soul, that he would give everything if it meant that she was content and safe and at peace. Nothing else mattered. How on Earth could anything else matter?

He looked over her face, taking in her features. She was so, so beautiful. And so kind. He'd laughed when she'd offered him her nightgown, and when she hadn't laughed back, he knew she'd been embarrassed. But he wasn't laughing at her. He'd simply found the gesture precious. It was such an innocent, generous offer.

Erik looked away and squeezed his knees with his hands. He wanted to kiss her forehead.

But he wouldn't do that.

He'd been taught not to do that.

For his fifth birthday, he'd ask his mother if he could have two kisses; one for now and one for later. The look of horror on her face made him recoil, and he'd cried as she yelled at him that he must never, ever ask for a kiss. When, in retaliation, he'd removed his mask before her, she'd beaten him until he was weeping, sore, on the floor of the kitchen.

If that's how women reacted to his affection, then no. No, he would certainly never ask for a kiss or attempt one. That was fine. He'd gone this far in life without it and he could go the rest of life without a kiss, too.

Quietly so as not to wake her, Erik lifted himself from the mattress and made his way into the parlor beyond.

\- - - - - - - - - - 

Erik lay on the couch, looking at the shadows of the room created by the light shining from the guest room and from the moonlit window by the front door. He was on his side, one hand under his pillow. The knife that had ended Javert was hidden between the couch's cushion and hard frame. One wrong move from any intruder - or from the policeman himself - and it would be one short, swift movement before Erik had the knife in his hands. This was part of the reason he wanted to sleep out here, and not Christine. Anyone wanting to get to her would have to get through him first.

He predicted he'd been lying awake for three hours when the front door unlocked. Erik bolted upright, keeping a hand close to where the knife was kept. In walked Nadir Khan, whistling as he walked. He paused for a moment as he spotted Erik sitting up, and then went to the fireplace. Whistling again, he went to the fireplace and within minutes, the coal sitting there was lit, illuminating the foyer. Nadir removed his police hat and baton, placed them on a hook beside the front door, and finally looked at Erik. He eyes went to the hand, the arm, bent behind him, ready to grab his weapon.

The Persian policeman crossed his arms and quirked his lip up. He was handsome, Erik thought, for an older man. Tall as Erik and barely any body fat. No facial hair, but neat, combed hair atop his head. He clearly took better care of himself than his former master. Did this mean he was more trustworthy than Javert, or did it simply mean he was more meticulous than Javert?

"You have a knife in that couch." It wasn't a question; the man said it like an observation.

Erik's heartbeat seemed to stop in his chest.

Nadir snorted. "Try it, my boy, I dare you. Try using that knife on me and watch what happens." He uncrossed his arms. "Christine is asleep, I presume, in the guest room."

Erik didn't remove his hand from the weapon's hiding place but only glanced shortly at the door. If the man tried to go to the room where she slept, he thought, he was fast enough that he could make it before the policeman. He seemed honest, enough so that he'd convinced them to go to his home, but still...

"I'm not going to hurt you. Either one of you."

Erik's eyes snapped to the Persian's, and he froze, blinking at the compassion he found there. The policeman was frowning, his eyes looking into Erik's, and his brow was gently furrowed. Some tension in Erik's shoulders released.

"If I wanted to hurt you, I would have already done so, before inviting you into the place I live. If anyone should be frightened of harm, I should think it would be me. Now," he said, and began walking to the kitchen through the archway, "I am going to make some tea. I always have a cup before I sleep. It calms me. Would you like a cup?"

"I..." he wanted to say yes, suddenly very thirsty, but the word poison flashed in his mind. He pushed the thought away. Nadir was right; if this man wanted to hurt them, he would have done so in the alleyway where they'd been defenseless and trapped. And, really, what reason would he have to hurt them anyway? What would he have gained from inviting them in and then leaving them alone for hours, only to take off his sheep's clothing?

"Tell you what," Nadir called from the kitchen, "I will make enough for two cups. I'll bring your cup to you. If you don't drink it, I won't take offense."

Erik listened in silence as a stove was lit and ceramic clanked in the room beyond. Minutes later and he heard the scream of a tea kettle. Nadir then walked in holding two saucers with two teacups upon them. He placed one of the cups on the coffee table in the middle of the room, nodding to Erik that this was his cup, and took a seat in the armchair beside the fire with a cup of his own. He blew on and sipped from the tea.

"It's spiced tea." The Persian smiled. "Cinnamon and clove. Habits from home. You may like it."

Erik, finally, pulled his arm from where the knife was placed and sat all the way up, cringing but ignoring his protesting body. He reached for the tea and brought it close, observing. Dark amber liquid in a white teacup. If he hadn't had his mask on, he would have sniffed it. Instead, he brought it to his lips and immediately spit it out.

"It's..." he gagged. "It's...medicinal." Oh, God. Had he actually been poisoned?

The Persian laughed. "I'm so sorry. I forgot to add sugar. Hold on a moment."

Erik continued to grimace, the disgusting taste still in his mouth, until Nadir returned with a tiny jar of sugar lumps and a small set of tongs. He placed them on the table and sat back down.

"I don't take it with sugar, but I've been told it helps with the unfamiliar taste," the policeman explained. He sipped from the cup and turned his attention to the hot bed of coals burning next to him.

Erik plopped three lumps of sugar into the tea, sure that the exorbitant amount would drown out the taste. He took another tentative sip. This time, he could actually taste the pleasant bite of cinnamon. He continued to drink, his thirst more quenched with every gulp.

"Better?" asked Nadir.

Erik nodded.

"Good." Nadir crossed one leg over the other. "So, did you win the fight?"

Erik stared at him. "Excuse me?"

"Well, you're clearly beaten up badly; you're moving so stiffly. And you haven't yet confirmed it, but I know you have a weapon. So, that leads me to conclude that you were in some sort of fight. Did you win?"

He looked down at his cup of half-emptied tea. "I suppose you could say that, yes."

"Who started the fight?"

A long pause. "He did," Erik whispered. "He always did."

"Did?" Nadir emphasized. Erik, alarmed with realization at what he'd said, snapped his gaze to the Persian. Nadir was watching him with calculating eyes. He nodded once and then looked back toward the coals. "So, what is the plan?"

Erik cleared his throat. "Sorry?"

"The plan. You ran away from the Gypsies, came to Paris, decided to sleep in an alleyway with only a sack between you. Surely you have a plan. Where to live, for starters. Or, were you thinking of making active street urchin careers?"

Erik looked away. "I have money."

"Stolen."

Erik took a long, deep breath. Irritation started at the back of his head. Why did this damned policeman insist on asking so many questions, on making so many assumptions? "It's not stolen," he said through his teeth. "It's mine. It may not have been technically mine, but I certainly earned every single franc. I worked and suffered for every single one."

"I see." Nadir tapped a finger against his cup. "And how did you plan on using this money?"

Erik's brow furrowed at the use of the word did. As his plans were past tense. As if he no longer had a viable plan. "We will find somewhere to live."

"Really?" said Nadir, raising a black eyebrow. "You believe that you will find a decent flat in Paris? The two of you, no credit or references to your name, sixteen years old, a boy in a mask and a frightened girl?"

"Someone will take us. There will be somewhere we can live."

"Fine. Let's say you go forth with living in the crime-infested slums of Paris, and - oh, my boy, don't look quite so annoyed." Nadir grinned as Erik's face heated with frustration. "I am being honest. No decent living space will look at you and decide your money is good enough for them. I'm not saying this to be cruel. I'm saying it to be truthful. So, let's assume that you do, in fact, decide on living in the roach dens of the city." The policeman leaned forward and placed his empty tea cup on the coffee table. "You realize the money will eventually run out, no matter how ridiculously low the rent?"

"Of course I realize that," spat Erik. "I'm not stupid."

"I never said you are."

A pause. Erik's heart was hammering in his chest. This was none of this nosy Persian's business. If he wanted to arrest him, he should do it already. "I will find a way to make money."

"Doing what? You realize most respectable workplaces will expect that mask of yours to come off. You wouldn't take it off for a police officer with a baton. You want me to believe you'll take it off for a potential employer?"

"I will do something. I will find something. I will-"

"Sing for audiences in a cage and then show them your face?"

Erik's blood ran scorching hot in his veins. He leaned forward and threw the teacup down with such force that it rattled on the table. "Fine," he growled. "Enlighten me then, monsieur, what am I supposed to do?"

Nadir stared at him a moment, thoughtful. "Well..." he drawled. "I suppose Christine could make some money. She's pretty enough, and there's plenty of brothels around..."

Erik, fast as a whip, reached into the crevice in the couch and pulled out the knife. He was on his feet before Nadir had said the word "brothels". He felt his breathing become ragged, but he couldn't stop it. Anger was exploding inside his head. He'd never dared to harm Javert, but if this policeman even attempted to suggest harm to Christine, he wouldn't hesitate to make him bleed.

Whatever Christine felt about herself, she'd given him a confidence he didn't know he had.

Nadir nodded slowly and sat up straight. There wasn't an ounce of fear in his eyes. Rather, to Erik's surprise, he found recognition. "Put the knife down, son," he whispered.

"I'm not your son." Erik's voice had taken on a sharp, grating edge.

"No, but you might as well be."

"What the hell does that mean?"

Nadir sighed. Slowly, he said again, "Put the knife down, Erik."

"No."

Nadir and Erik stared at one another for several moments longer, neither moving. Then the Persian sat back in his chair and crossed his legs again. "Fine. I'll come up with a kinder solution to your question. You ask what you could do? You could do nothing." He smiled at the confusion in Erik's eyes. "There's a roof, a place to sleep, and food right here. So, one option is that you could simply stop where you are and do nothing."

Erik watched the Persian sit there and smile. Was this man actually suggesting they stay here? Long term? "And what, monsieur," Erik asked lowly, the knife still in his hand, "would you want in return, for us doing nothing?"

Nadir's fingers interlaced with one another on his lap. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" Erik whispered.

"Nothing," the Persian repeated. "Stay out of trouble, perhaps. Does that still count as nothing?"

"I don't understand." Erik's voice shook. This was too good of an offer to be true. It was cruel. To play with their vulnerability like this was cruel. "You're a stranger. You met us hours ago. And now you're asking us to live here? Why? Why do you care? Why do you want to help us? And how could you possibly want nothing from us in return?"

The Persian's face became grim. "This isn't a trick, Erik."

"It sure seems like one."

Nadir looked from one of Erik's eyes to the other. "Not everyone wants to hurt you, son."

"I said," seethed Erik, enunciating each word individually, "don't call me son."

The policeman watched him for a few more seconds. Then, he closed his eyes. "I had a son, in Persia." When he opened his eyes again, they were full of regret. "I treated him with very little compassion. And, because of that, he died. Sixteen years old. Like you."

Erik listened intently, his heart slowing, and felt his grip loosen on the knife. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"That was ten years ago." He leaned forward and gazed at him. "Erik, I do not know what happened to you and Christine. I will not ask what happened. The only way I will find out is if you tell me. But I will tell you this. I think that when people are desperate, they do desperate things. And I think that when children grow up around violence and hatred, they have a great deal of trouble escaping violence and hatred when they're older. So I offer to help you, Erik, because if I can keep just one more child from being trapped within a cycle of fear and crime, I will. This world is hard. If I can make it less so, but choose not to, then I have reason for shame."

Erik sat down. He dropped the knife onto the couch, searching Nadir's face for the joke, the punchline, but not finding it. "I have money. I can give you money to pay-"

"Keep your money. Use it for yourselves."

Erik swallowed, daring to let a small glimmer of hope rise in his chest. "You really want nothing from us?" he whispered.

Nadir grinned. "I suppose I wouldn't mind an extra hand with keeping the place clean; maybe helping with the dishes. Now-" The Persian pulled a watch from his pants and checked it for the time. "Believe it or not, I have a daytime shift tomorrow. I should be getting some sleep." He stood. "Knock if you need something."

And he got up and left to his bedroom, leaving Erik sitting, frozen in disbelief, on the couch, staring into the dying embers of the fireplace. After a length of time, long enough for the light of the room to dim to near darkness, he shifted onto his back and, actually, slept.


	9. Chapter 9

When Christine woke the next morning, something didn't feel right. Her body felt strangely weak, and she had a tickle in her throat that wouldn't go away. She chalked it up to excessive crying from the night before, from tiredness from the last couple of days, and went back to sleep. When she awoke again, perhaps a couple of hours later, the weakness had turned to an intense ache in which every small movement hurt, and the tickle in her throat was now a burning soreness.

"Erik?" she called out, the movement sending daggers through her throat. She knew he was awake. She'd been vaguely aware of him conversing with the policeman last night, had sensed him check on her a couple of times this morning, and now heard him rustling slightly in the foyer; it sounded like he was writing. The rustle stopped when she called his name.

"Yes, Christine?" he answered, and she heard him rise from the couch. He walked into the guest room, took one look at her, and stopped dead in his tracks. "Are you all right?"

"I don't think so," she said.

He moved quickly to her side and laid a hand on her forehead. She shuddered. His palm and fingers were so cold. He pulled his fingers away hastily and stared down at her in horror.

"You're ill," he said softly.

She closed her eyes and groaned lightly. Of course she was ill, on top of everything else.

"I will be right back," he said gently.

Her eyes flew open and she reached out a hand to grab his arm. Her own arm protested the movement as she did so. "Wait," she whispered. "Don't go. I don't want to be alone."

Erik's gaze slowly shifted to the hand gripping his arm, and was looking at it with a strong, unknown emotion. When he looked back at her face, his mismatched eyes were tender. "I'm only going to make you tea. I promise I will be back in a few minutes."

Reluctantly, Christine nodded, and released his arm. He left the room, and true to his word, he had returned within minutes, not before Christine heard a tea kettle whistle in the kitchen. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding a cup on a saucer, steaming with liquid.

"Can you sit?" he asked.

She attempted, and whimpered, landing on her elbows. Concerned, Erik offered her his free hand and she took it, and he pulled her to a sitting position.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He nodded, and offered her the cup. "It's Persian cinnamon tea. There's sugar in it; I'm not sure if you take sugar, but trust me when I say that it needs it."

She took the cup from him and sipped from it; her throat screamed in pain and spasmed in response to the hot liquid. She couldn't swallow. She coughed, hard, into her hand where the tea was spat back out. Erik took the cup quickly from her. She coughed several more times and took a shuddering breath.

"Christine?" he said, worry filling his voice.

"I can't," she breathed, and laid back down. "My throat is burning."

Erik put the cup and saucer on the bedside table, and then looked down at her. Fear was plain through his mask.

"I think I want to sleep more," she said. Dizziness had washed over her, now that she was lying down again. "Can you stay here while I sleep?"

"Of course."

She closed her eyes and was gone from the world in moments.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Christine didn't have any nightmares. If she did, she didn't remember them. The shadows of her forgotten dreams, though, lingered, and with them brought anxiety and a sick sense of wrongness. It took her several minutes to recall the events of the previous day, and she swallowed. Immediately, her throat protested, and she groaned.

"...and I don't know what to do." Erik's hushed voice in the foyer. It was filled with desperation.

Christine forced her tired eyes open. From the light in the room, she guessed it was late afternoon. Had she slept that long? Her body was still aching at every movement, and she felt simultaneously like she was on fire and submerged in snow.

"Let me take a look at her," came Nadir's deeper voice.

Both of them entered the room, gently pushing the door open, Erik taking the very close rear. Erik went to the dresser and leaned his back against it, his long fingers gripping the wood's edge. He looked panic-stricken.

"Christine?" said the Persian softly, going around to the other side of the bed.

She hummed a weak response.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Everything hurts," she whispered, and grimaced. "My throat especially."

"She spat out the tea I made her," Erik added, staring at Christine. "She said it hurt to drink."

"Hm," grunted Nadir, and laid a hand on her forehead. It wasn't nearly so cold as Erik's fingers had been, but were still cooler than they should have been. Nadir frowned and muttered, "Erik's right; you are very warm." He put a hand around the back of her head and tilted it slightly forward. "Open your mouth, please."

She did.

"Wider, if you could."

She opened it wider, and whimpered. The motion was deeply uncomfortable for her sore throat. The Persian laid her head back down on the pillow flatly.

"You stay here," he said to Erik, and started for the door. "I am going to go call on the doctor. Right now."

Erik's hands tightened on the dresser and his elbows and shoulders locked. "Why? What's wrong with her?"

Christine closed her eyes. Exhaustion, despite the lateness of the day and the amount she'd already slept, was merciless in its onslaught.

"It appears to be," said Nadir's voice, now very far away and faint to her tired mind, "the very beginnings of Scarlet Fever."


	10. Chapter 10

Scarlet Fever.

People died from Scarlet Fever. All of the time. Several people in the Romani camp had gotten it. And quite a few hadn't made it.

Erik's hands shook where they gripped the dresser. This couldn't be happening. They had just reached safety, and now...

"Are you certain it's that?" he whispered as Nadir made his way to the door.

The policeman stopped at the door and looked at him, pursing his lips. "I can't be completely sure, but yes, I would put some money on it. The doctor will be able to confirm if it's Scarlet Fever or not. I will be back as soon as I can."

Erik nodded, and then looked at Christine. She appeared to be sleeping again.

Quietly, he made his way into the kitchen and picked one of the chairs placed at the small dining table. He carried it into the guest room and put it down on the floor next to the dresser. He sat down. He would not risk her waking up to find him gone, if she really was ill with something deadly. He squeezed the seat of the chair with his hands. Why was this happening? God decided to gift him freedom, but at a cost? He furrowed his eyebrows. Yes, he wanted freedom from his life before, but he could have run away any time he wanted. What he most desired was freedom from loneliness. And if Christine became too sick...

He shook his head. There was no point thinking like this. Even if it was something as harsh as Scarlet Fever, people did survive that disease. Plenty of people did.

Erik crossed his arms and sat back, waiting for Nadir to return with the doctor.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Nearly an hour later, Nadir had walked in with a man who appeared to be in his thirties, brown hair and mustache, with spectacles on his face. He carried a handled black bag. The doctor stopped short upon seeing Erik, surprise on his face at the sight of the mask and Romani clothes, and then turned his attention to Christine.

"She's asleep," said Erik softly.

The doctor nodded. He went to the bed and laid a hand on her forehead, frowning. Christine stirred awake, her eyes opening, lids appearing heavy.

"Hello, Mademoiselle," said the doctor gently. "My name is Doctor Carrier. What's your name?"

"Christine," she responded. Erik's heart sank at how weak she sounded.

The doctor smiled kindly. "Good evening, Christine, it's good to meet you. Your guardian told me that he thinks you might be sick. I'd like to take a look; is that all right?"

Christine nodded.

The doctor asked her to open her mouth, the same way Nadir had. He checked her pulse, her temperature, what she was currently feeling in her body, and asked her several questions: her age, what she ate, how much exercise and fresh air she typically got. Then, he asked a question that made Erik sit up straight.

"Have you been in extremely close contact with anyone lately? Any situation where your hands or face were touching another person's skin?"

Christine's eyes shot to Erik for a moment, and he could see the visible discomfort. Erik felt nauseous. Javert...

"Yes," she whispered.

"Was this person sick in any way?" the doctor asked.

"No," she responded, her voice suddenly quivering, and she seemed to shrink into herself. Erik wanted to scream at the doctor for not realizing how uncomfortable he was making her. "He seemed fine."

Doctor Carrier nodded. "I've seen it happen where a person can be around someone sick, be completely fine, but then pass the disease on to someone else. It's rare and a bit of a mystery, but it can happen. So you might have gotten sick from this person even if he wasn't sick."

Erik stared at Christine, who was watching the doctor with furrowed brows. Of course, of course, Javert had made her sick. It only made sense. It was so fitting - his old master's last bit of revenge. It was his way of saying, from beyond the grave, that no one crossed him and got away with it. Why had Erik even thought for a moment that anything would turn out all right? It never had before, so why would it now?

"She is very sick, then?" asked Nadir, next to the doorway.

"I wouldn't say very sick," responded Carrier. "I agree that it appears to have the same symptoms as early Scarlet Fever, but we will know for sure if her skin begins to redden. We will worry about it then. For right now, we are going to hope that it is a very, very nasty cold. The most concerning thing right now is the fever. It's not currently a deadly temperature, but it could be if it turns into something more severe."

Erik didn't relax. "How do we keep it from becoming anything severe?"

The doctor turned to him and looked over his covered face. Though his expression seemed wary of the mask, he didn't say anything about it. "As of right now, the most you can do is ensure that she gets plenty of rest, and that she gets liquid into her. The liquid, even if it's hot, will cool her body. Tea, milk, soup...I recommend giving her these things. It will also be easier for her to swallow liquids than solid foods, as her throat is so raw and her tonsils are so swollen."

"I tried giving her tea before," Erik explained. "She spat it out."

The doctor turned to Christine. "You couldn't drink it?" he asked, concerned.

"It hurt to," she said, grimacing. Erik knew it hurt to just to talk.

Carrier nodded. "I understand that. But you do need to eat and drink something in order to feel better. You may have to push through the pain."

\- - - - - - - - - -

After the doctor left, Nadir made tea for Christine while Erik stayed in the room with her. She didn't say anything, but he knew that she was thinking the same thing as him. There really hadn't been any escaping Javert. That he was continuing to violate her body, and continuing to laugh at Erik's mental torture, even in death.

Nadir brought in two cups of tea, placed them on the counter, and then announced that he would be making soup for supper. When he left, Erik picked up one of the cups, say on the bed, and helped Christine sit up. This time, she did manage to get the tea down, but pain was apparent on her face. Erik's stomach was in knots at her expression.

"Are you still thirsty?" he asked after the first cup of tea was finished.

She nodded, but said, "I think that cup is for you, though."

He was already making his way for the second cup. He brought it to her. "I don't need it."

He helped her finish the second cup. And when Nadir made soup, Erik helped her drink the broth. By the time she had finished the liquid food, she was looking at Erik strangely.

"What is it?" he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed as he helped her lower herself back down.

She watched him for a moment. "You're a very good friend, Erik," she whispered.

He smiled slightly. "So are you."

She shook her head. "No, I mean, I...I feel really cared for. By you. You're taking care of me. You don't have to, but you are."

Erik's heart leapt into his throat. "That's because I do care for you, Christine," he said, his voice strangely hoarse.

"I care for you, too." She put her hand on top of his. He hoped the hand she was touching wasn't trembling. "I want to be a good friend to you, as well."

"You are," he whispered.

Christine smiled and closed her eyes. She was asleep in minutes. Erik took his place in the chair next to the dresser; he didn't move from the spot all night, even when he fell asleep as well.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Christine wasn't better in the morning. In fact, she had only gotten worse.

The moment he saw that her cheeks and neck were splotched with red - resembling, he realized for a shocking moment, his own natural skin - and that her lips were colored scarlet, he alerted Nadir. The policeman, who had the day off from duties, immediately went to fetch the doctor. When the doctor arrived, he'd checked Christine for barely ten minutes when the dreaded words came.

Christine did, indeed, have Scarlet Fever.

Erik barely heard what Carrier said he would need to do to treat the disease. Everything became blurry and sounds all mixed together. No. No, no, no, no.

At some point, the doctor began bloodletting Christine, claiming it would help release the disease from her system, and Erik saw that he was running from the room before he his mind could catch up to him. He went to the kitchen and leaned over the counter. Nadir followed him.

"Erik, she's not dead yet," said the Persian softly.

"So many people die of Scarlet Fever." Erik's voice wavered when he spoke. "There's no guarantee she will survive."

"There's no guarantee she will die, either."

"I've seen how it kills people!" Erik whirled on Nadir. "Have you ever seen what it does to the human body?"

"Yes," said Nadir, raising an eyebrow. "In fact, I've had it, as a child. It killed my brother but left my father, mother, and me alive. If my family is any indication, she has a three in four chance of surviving."

Erik grimaced and turned away from him.

"My boy, those are not bad odds."

"They aren't exactly good odds, either. That means that she still has a one in four chance of dying."

Erik looked down at his hands; his skeletal, pale hands and the unnaturally long, bony fingers attached to them. They looked like white spiders. And yet, she'd placed her own small, beautiful hand over his. In a show of care, of affection.

That might never happen again.

"Do you have clothes?" asked Nadir suddenly.

Erik snapped his attention back to him. "What?"

"In that bag you brought. Do the two of you have any extra clothes to wear."

"She does," he responded. "I don't."

Nadir nodded. "Why don't we go out and find you some clothes to wear, then."

Shopping. He wanted to go shopping.

Erik stared at him. "You're joking, monsieur."

"I can assure you that I'm not."

Erik shook his head. "No. I want to stay here. In case Christine needs anything."

"The doctor is here, Erik. And you know that spending so much time with her will make you sick, too."

"No, it won't."

Nadir almost laughed. "What do you mean, it won't? Do you, what, not get sick?"

"That's right," said Erik, looking at Nadir, challenging him to disbelieve him. To call him a freak for it. "I don't. I've never, in my life, gotten ill. Not once. For some reason, I've been blessed with inhuman immunity. I'm not scared of this disease. At least, I'm not scared for myself."

\- - - - - - - - - -

Nadir left anyway, and soon, the doctor did, too. He'd bandaged Christine's arm, and when Erik saw her, she was paler, weaker, than she was before. She was sleeping. Erik took his place at the chair in the room, resolute that until she recovered, this was his permanent place in the flat.

When Nadir returned, he'd brought with him clothes for Erik (and also some clothes for Christine, saying that when - not if, but when - she recovered, she may want to also blend in with Paris in non-Romani clothes). When Erik questioned how the policeman knew what size to get for them, he'd responded that it was part of his job to take note of people's dimensions. Erik put the clothes into the dresser, where he was now keeping the knife, and sat back down.

The following five days went by in a painful, slow blur of time. Christine was sleeping more and more, only waking to drink tea or broth. Her fever never went down. She didn't talk, only thanked Erik with her eyes when he helped her. Her throat pained her more with every passing day. Erik never left the room except when necessary; Nadir brought in all food and drink.

She'd said the first night they'd arrived that she would prefer if he didn't leave the room. He hadn't honored that before, but he would now. Now, that any moment could be the last he'd see her.

On the sixth day, in the morning, Erik helped her sit up so that she could drink tea. She looked at him in confusion.

"Where's Papa?" she asked. Her eyes were glazed.

Erik stared back at her. A terrible, sinking feeling started in his stomach. "Christine?"

She looked around her, and panic entered her eyes. "Where is he?" she whispered. "Where is this? Erik, where are we?"

"Christine," said Erik, feeling coldness settle in him, "you're in Paris. We ran away. We're-"

"Where's Papa?" Her face scrunched, and tears fell from her eyes. "Where is my Papa? Why does everything hurt so much? Erik, I want to go home." She sobbed.

Christine's panic crept into Erik's own mind. She was delirious. Why didn't she remember anything? He placed his hand on her forehead and almost sobbed himself. She had been warm before, but now she was absolutely burning.

Oh, God, she wasn't getting better. She was only getting worse.

While she cried, Erik opened his mouth and sang to her, trying to steady the nerves from affecting his voice. Her sobbing faltered and she watched him.

"You're the Angel of Music," she whispered. "You're not Erik. You're the Angel of Music. Papa told me about you. You came."

She looked at him a few seconds longer as he sang. And when she had fallen back asleep, Erik had to remove his mask, for his face was uncomfortably wet with salty, helpless tears.

\- - - - - - - - - -

The doctor arrived, and he looked at Nadir and Erik grimly. With how high her fever was, there was only two outcomes, and both most likely arriving within the next twenty-four hours.

The fever could break and she could recover.

The fever could further heighten and she could die.

Both were, at this point, equally likely. Now it was simply a waiting game, as there was not much more anyone could do.

While Christine slept, Erik went to the little dining table in the kitchen and laid his hands flat on the table. Nadir followed him and stood in front of the stove, crossing his arms. After a few moments of silence, Erik yelled out and hit the table's surface. Nadir didn't react.

"This is my fault," said Erik, voice strained.

"How in Allah's name is this possibly your fault?

"I should have protected her. I was too weak. If I had only protected her-"

"Protected her from a disease? Erik, really-"

"From the man who gave her the disease!" Erik exclaimed, his voice breaking. "The same man who forced me to perform at that carnival forced her to...to touch him." Nadir stared at him, emotionless, listening. "He must have been carrying the disease, and now he's given it to her. We finally escape, and now this."

Nadir only watched him silently, and then opened his mouth to respond. His voice was gentle. "I am so sorry that that happened to her. To you. And I sincerely apologize, from the bottom of my heart, for suggesting, even in jest, that Christine become a prostitute. That was incredibly unkind of me."

Erik dug his nails into the wood. He felt as if his entire body were about to crumple in on itself.

"I finally found a friend," he said, voice shaking; he couldn't help it, and he didn't care anyway. "I finally, finally, found someone who showed an ounce of care for me, after I'd been beaten and sneered at in the carnival, after my own mother hated me so much that she forced me into a mask so that she didn't have to look at me. I found another human being who offered me kinship, and she is going to be ripped from me, just like that. And not even of her own volition. It's not fair," he whispered. "It's not fair."

"No," answered Nadir softly. "It's not fair."

"My mother...Javert...they both thought me a monster. Maybe I am."

"That's not true, Erik," said the policeman. Erik looked up; he was still standing in the kitchen with his arms crossed.

"No?" said Erik. He untied his mask; damn whatever Nadir's response would be. He didn't care anymore. "Are you sure?"

He brought the mask away from his face and threw the leather onto the table. To Erik's surprise, Nadir didn't even flinch. He knew he's seen the show at the carnival before, but still...

"You deserve love," said the policeman softly.

Erik exhaled a sharp breath and looked away. Ridiculous. Ridiculous. That statement almost made Erik want to laugh. That was a statement meant for someone else, anybody else, but it sounded so wrong to Erik's ears. After everything everyone had ever told him, done to him, this man had the audacity to suggest that he deserved anything else? Perhaps he should tell God that...

"Did you hear me?" asked Nadir.

"Yes."

"No," said the Persian, and walked a bit closer, so that he was on the other side of the table, "I'm not sure that you did. I told you that you deserve love."

Erik stared at the man across from him in disbelief. This felt so wrong. He wasn't even wearing his mask. He was so exposed. But something was preventing him from grabbing his mask, from moving at all.

"You have no idea what I've been through in my life," spat Erik. "You said you had a son; you're a police officer of Paris. That means you had a family, that you have a career. Those are things I will never ever have. You and I are nothing alike. Don't pretend to understand me, because you don't. You never will."

Nadir's expression didn't change. He moved closer to Erik, kept moving until he was an arm's length away. "I'm not pretending to understand you. You're right. I don't understand and never will. I am not invalidating anything you have been through. What I am saying, Erik, is that you have been taught that you do not deserve affection, that you are a monster. You have that idea so ingrained into you that it's second nature."

Erik's breath quickened. His palms were becoming slick with sweat.

Nadir continued, "I am telling you - and I want you to really listen, really understand me - is that you are a person; and as a person, like all people, you deserve love."

Erik's breath hitched.

When he tried to breathe again, he couldn't.

Instead, a sob wrenched forth from his body, so forceful that he was knocked onto his elbows, leaning over the table. Tears spilled from his eyes, filled with sixteen years of pain and loneliness. He felt two warm, strong arms wrap around him from behind. Erik wanted to protest, to push Nadir away, but he didn't have the will. There was a part of him that didn't want to.

"I'm so sorry, Erik," whispered Nadir. "I'm sorry the world treated you this way. You're cared for, son. You're loved. I promise."

Erik, gasping for air between breaths, collapsed to the floor when his legs gave way. He knelt on the floor and cried. He cried for every time he silently begged his mother to hug him, to pay attention to him, to look at him with anything but disgust. He cried for his childhood dog, Sasha, the only living being to show him love as a child; Sasha, who died right before Erik ran away. He cried for the moment he realized that the world saw him not as a person, but as a freak, a demon, a monster. He cried for every day after that this message was made clearer and clearer to him.

And he cried for Christine. His first friend, now potentially lost from the world.

Nadir knelt beside him and wrapped his arms around him again, like a father holding his sobbing child. Erik, without realizing what he was doing, leaned into Nadir, who held on tighter.

Erik only sobbed harder.


	11. Chapter 11

Reality and dreams mixed together in a frightening cacophony of sounds and sights, some familiar and some unknown.

Christine had woken up and spotted Erik with relief, but couldn't remember where her father was. She remembered something horrible had happened to him, but she couldn't remember if he was safe or not; she couldn't even remember where she herself was. When Erik didn't answer her question about her father, when he said they were in Paris, fear gripped her. She remembered crying. Then, she remembered that Erik had sung, had suddenly transformed into the Angel of Music, the Angel her father told her stories about, their guardian. Maybe, she'd thought, Erik wasn't Erik at all.

Maybe he'd really been the Angel of Music all along.

She liked that idea. That her friend was actually an Angel in disguise. It made her feel safe, and closer to God.

Maybe that meant she wasn't going to Hell for killing a man, after all.

She fell back asleep, and images and sounds of blood spilling, Persian policeman, dead stroke-victims with red hair, and people throwing apple cores at skull-faced Angels filled her dreamscape. She wasn't sure when, if ever, she woke up. She couldn't tell the difference between the waking and dream world. Everything was confusing and wild.

Through the pandemonium in her head, she registered the doctor coming back, though she couldn't understand what he was doing or saying. A little later, she could hear yelling and crying from somewhere far away. It sounded like Erik.

Oh, no. Why was he crying? He was such a sweet, kind person, full of so much goodness and love; she couldn't let him be sad.

"Erik," she whispered. But she didn't think he could hear her. The policeman's voice sounded lightly, and his crying became more intense. Did Nadir say something to upset him further?

It didn't matter. The images and sounds in her mind changed again and she'd forgotten about Erik's sobs entirely.

\- - - - - - - - - -

There was one moment that she was nearly certain that she was awake for. She tried to open her eyes, but they wouldn't stay open. Through her blinking, she could see that night had fallen, and the room was illuminated in yellow light from a lantern on a dresser. She'd closed her eyes again and let them stay closed. Everything in her body was so, so weak. Everything hurt.

She felt a cold, wet cloth against her forehead. She shivered violently.

"Christine." It was Erik's voice. She wanted to respond, but didn't have the energy. "Christine, I will never ask anything of you. Never. But please don't die. Please stay alive." His voice broke on that last word. "Please. Please don't leave. I'm begging you."

I will try.

Christine wanted to respond. She really did. But her body succumbed to darkness before she could attempt to make a movement.

In the darkness, she saw that a six-armed doctor was sawing through her skin, trying to rid her body of the evil disease.

She saw that the room shifted and changed until she was in a tent, an enormous bearded man coming closer and closer, grinning the whole time.

She saw that the man transformed into a policeman, demanding that she confess her crimes or be killed with a baton in an alleyway.

And finally, she saw that the policeman had become an Angel with Erik's face and voice, lifting her into his arms and pulling her up into the Heavens.

Dying. She was dying. She'd lost the battle against this illness. Hopefully she would see her father where she was going.

She wasn't even sure she had time to pray. She was being pulled up so quickly.

I'm sorry, Erik. I tried. I'm sorry.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Christine's eyes fluttered open. The first thing she noticed was the clarity; she knew where she was, why she was here, and could discern with certainty that she was awake and that it was morning.

The second thing she noticed was that her body, though incredibly weak and tired, didn't hurt. And her throat, while dry as parchment, wasn't burning anymore either.

She turned her head to the side and drew in a quick intake of breath. Erik had moved his chair to the side of the foot of the bed. He was leaning down, his masked face half-concealed by the arm he rested on. Her heart softened; she wondered how long it had been until he'd fallen asleep last night, or if he'd meant to fall asleep at all. He'd been so motherly throughout this ordeal, so worried.

"Erik?" she called out hoarsely.

Erik stirred and opened his eyes. He lifted his head and looked at her. Upon seeing her own eyes looking back at him, he bolted from his chair and went to her side.

"Christine," he whispered. He placed a trembling hand on her forehead and widened his eyes. "You're not warm anymore." His voice was filled with incredulity.

She gave a tiny smile in return. "I'm not in any pain, either."

"You're not?"

"No."

He let out a breathy laugh but didn't smile. "I think...I think you're recovering, then."

"I hope so. I feel better. I don't think I can walk, but I don't feel like I'm dying anymore."

Erik watched her, his blue and brown eyes wetting. His breath shuddered and he dropped to his knees beside the bed, his hands gripping the sheets. "I thought I was going to lose you." Tears fell from his eyes and disappeared behind the masks's leather. "I thought..." He gasped and sobbed, dipping his head down.

Christine's heart broke in her chest. She wrapped her hand around Erik's left fingers. He responded by squeezing them back. "Oh, Erik." She ran her thumb across the back of his hand. It was still cold, but his hands were naturally that temperature, as she'd learned when they'd run from the camp. "It's all right. I'm all right."

He sighed and put his covered forehead gently on top of her rashy hand. He didn't seem to care if he got sick; hadn't cared at all the entire time. All he'd cared about was whether she got better.

Affection for him overcame her.

"Erik?"

He looked up, his eyes a light, puffy pink.

She squeezed his hand a little tighter. "I care about you."

His beautiful eyes widened and softened. Love. She could see love in his eyes. Her father had looked at her with the same expression many times before. A gentle expression that filled her with ease and safety.

"I care about you, too, Christine. I care about you with everything I have."

Christine remembered suddenly Javert calling Erik a demon. How could a demon hold an expression of so much care and affection as the one Erik held in his eyes? No, if anything, Erik was...

An angel.

With a jolt, she recalled what her delusional mind had called Erik.

"Did I mention the Angel of Music while I was sick?"

He nodded slowly.

"Did I...I mean, did I name you as...did I-"

"It's all right." He laid his other hand on hers. "Your mind wasn't completely here."

She looked away and nodded, but couldn't help embarrassment from warming her face. She'd called him the Angel of Music. Dear Lord.

"I took it as a compliment, Christine, don't worry."

At the tenderness in his voice, she looked at him and saw that he was smiling lightly. She smiled back. "You should." Christine shifted slightly so that she was facing him more fully. "My father told me that when he died, he would send the Angel of Music to look over me, like a guardian angel." She watched him as he listened, and then whispered, "Maybe you are."

He scoffed, not unkindly. "I'm no angel."

"Maybe not literally." She looked from his blue eye to his brown one. "But maybe there's no real Angel of Music either. Maybe my father thought you were the next best thing, and that's why we crossed paths."

Erik's eyes became sad, and he shifted his gaze down. "After everything that's happened, you consider meeting me a good thing."

"It's not your fault." Her stomach roiled as she remembered what happened a week ago, what she'd done. "If anything, I'm the one that's done wrong."

"How?" he demanded, intensity in his gaze.

She stared at him. How? "Erik, I - I killed Javert. I murdered him. And I knew what I was doing. I meant to do it."

"And if you hadn't, we'd both still be suffering; you might be dead from Scarlet Fever." She could see him furrow his brows through the mask. "Do you know how many times I wanted to kill him, Christine? How many times I thought of doing exactly what you did? I was too scared."

She swallowed. "I don't consider it a weakness to abstain from murder."

"But what you did took strength," he responded. "He was hurting both of us, and you put a stop to it in the only way you could. Really, Christine, think about it. In that moment, what else could you have done?"

"If I'd waited..." She trailed off. If she'd waited, Erik would have ended up bleeding with broken bones, and Javert would have taken her and... She pushed her nausea back down.

"If you'd waited, he would have come after us when we ran away later." Erik stood up. "You saved me, Christine. You saved both of us. Don't you realize that?"

She wasn't sure that she did. Christine understood what Erik was saying, yes, but...but did it really justify killing a man? Did it justify it in the eyes of God? Would it justify it in the eyes of Papa? She recalled, with a cold feeling, her dream the first night she was here, in which she drove a knife into him and he called her a murderer.

Christine looked away. "I don't think my father would be pleased with me for what I did."

Erik didn't move for several moments, and then he sat on the edge of the bed. His usual spot, she thought. She liked when he sat there. "I didn't know him," he murmured, and Christine met his gaze. His expression was firm. "But, if I was him, I'd be proud of you for defending yourself."

Christine took a deep, quivering breath, feeling her eyes prick. "I miss him." She reached up a hand to wipe her tears away. "So much."

"I'm sure. I'm so sorry, Christine."

She let herself weep, not uncomfortable that Erik was seeing her cry. Erik watched her with sad eyes for a few seconds, and then moved to the window. He parted the curtains, letting sunlight pour in.

"W...what are you doing?" she stammered through tears.

He merely looked at her. "I was raised Catholic."

Christine blinked. "Me too."

"I'm not anymore." He sat back down on the edge of the bed, still looking at her. "I don't believe in that."

Christine tried to force herself into a sitting position. It didn't hurt, but her arms shook when she pushed up. Erik held out a hand, and she took it. He pulled her up, and she scooted back so that her back rested against the wall. After so long lying down, it felt good to sit up. She was sure it would feel even better to stand when she was able.

"What do you mean?"

He cocked his head at her. "What do you mean, what do I mean?"

"That you don't believe in it. Which part? The stories, the tenets-"

"All of it."

She stared at him. "All of it?"

"Yes."

"Do you believe in God?"

Erik shook his head left to right. He seemed to be analyzing her, reading her expression, watching for some kind of reaction.

"You don't believe in God."

"I don't." He frowned. "I'm sorry, Christine. I know that you do. Most people do."

"Is it because of how people have treated you?" she whispered.

He paused. "That, yes. But also...why would He give me this face? Why would a kind God give me the face I have? It seems like a cruel prank to me. Or like He made a mistake. But if He is completely good and perfect, then it being a prank or a mistake doesn't make sense."

"God works-"

"-in mysterious ways," he finished for her. "I know. I heard that from my village priest plenty of times as a child. And trust me, my mother made me go to church many times when I still lived with her, more than any other boy had to. I think it was her way of soothing herself, of putting us both in a safe place so that she didn't have to be alone at home with me all the time. Or maybe she thought I was possessed, and that spending time in a church would purify me."

Christine felt herself deflate at his words. "Your mother...didn't she love you?"

"No." He looked away. "Not in the slightest. She made it very clear that she thought I was a burden every chance she could."

She sucked in a breath. "Oh, Erik..."

"It's all right," he said. "I've already reckoned with it. She hated me and I eventually learned to hate her."

Christine looked at him, at his hands stiffly clutching his legs and the pain that lingered in his eyes, despite the fact that he'd "reckoned" with his mother's disdain.

"Erik?"

He moved his eyes to hers.

"If I was your mother," she said softly, and already felt the flush go to her cheeks, "I would be proud of you, too."

It seemed to take him some time to register her words. Then, he reached out a hand toward her face, seemed as if he were about to brush her cheek, and then quickly pulled away. "Thank you, Christine."

She smiled. "We could always be each other's parents, I suppose."

To her happy surprise, he grinned back. "I will be honest, I don't entirely like that idea."

Christine giggled, and Erik's eyes glittered with delight. She cleared her throat. "I agree. Maybe I'm still a bit delirious."

Concern flashed across Erik's face. He reach out a hand to feel her forehead, but she caught his wrist. "I'm only joking," she said, and let his arm go."

Erik nodded, and then looked out of the window. "You know, the only reason I even know what love is supposed to feel like is because of my dog."

"Your dog?"

"Yes." His mind looked far away. "Her name was Sasha. She was a Cocker Spaniel." He smiled ruefully. "Whenever I cried, she would always lick my tears away. I loved her so much."

"What happened to her?"

"She died," he whispered. Christine took his hand in hers. "She was outside one night and a few neighbors in the village spotted her. The entire village was scared of me, they did think I was a demon, and they knew she was my dog. They killed her." He pursed his lips. "She was old, anyway. My mother'd had her since before I was born."

"I'm so sorry, Erik."

"I comforted myself by saying that it was all right, that I'd see her in Heaven one day. I told my mother this. My Catholic mother. And the priest at the church."

Christine's stomach dropped. "Oh, no..."

"They told me that, no, I wouldn't see her. I'd never see her again. 'Animals don't go to Heaven', they told me." He swallowed. "I stopped believing in God after that. If Sasha wasn't going to Heaven, then it wasn't somewhere that I wanted to go."

Christine looked down. She had to admit, she didn't blame him for not believing. If she'd gone through what he had, she might not have wanted to believe, either.

"Even though I don't believe, I still sometimes talk to her like she's around. I look at the sky and talk to her. Because what if everyone's wrong? What if there is a Heaven, but animals get in and not people? That makes more sense to me. Cats and dogs; they love unconditionally. They don't judge anyone, not for your sins, your wealth, what you look like. They don't care; they are pure beings. It makes more sense for them to have souls than humans. Humans are cruel intentionally, animals aren't."

Christine squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back. She didn't know what to say. The only thing she could do was listen. It seemed to be the only thing he wanted from her at the moment, anyway.

"I suppose what I am trying to say," he said, and looked at her, "is that you do believe, so if you look at the sky and talk to your father, there's a good chance he will actually hear you. I have no idea if Sasha can hear me, but if your father is in Heaven, then you can simply look up and talk to him. He may not respond, but he'll listen."

She looked out the window behind her, up at the clear sky above. At the bright blueness, she felt a warmth wash over her. Whether it was in her head or Erik's words were true, she believed, if only for a moment, that her Papa really was looking down on her, was watching her.

"Thank you," she whispered. She turned her attention back to him, and she saw that he was watching her with affection. "I hope I see him there one day."

"You will."

"I thought you didn't believe."

"I don't," he said, and smiled, "but you do. I don't know that there's a Heaven, but there's one thing I do know. If there is a Heaven, you are going."


	12. Chapter 12

Erik had a difficult time leaving Christine's side over the course of the following week. The two days following her recovery, she was still too weak to get out of bed, so he took all of his meals into her room to eat with her. On the third day, she was well enough to get up and walk around the flat, and was able to eat with Erik and Nadir in the kitchen.

It was four nights after she'd recovered, when Christine saw that Erik was groaning and stiff after sleeping in the wooden chair in her room, that Christine suggested that it was his turn to take the bed, but he'd outright refused that. She asked him to at least sleep on the couch again, and he protested initially, but when she said that she still wanted the door to her room slightly open, he'd reluctantly agreed. It was probably better for his back in the long run if he slept lying down.

Erik and Nadir hadn't spoken much since the night he'd cried in front of him. There was a mutual understanding, a shared respect, between them now, though. They nodded and smiled at one another when one caught the other's eye. And their meal conversations were cordial enough. Erik helped Nadir prepare meals; the man taught him how to cook. He appreciated it. Erik loved all of the arts, and cooking was just one more way to express himself creatively.

A week after she'd recovered, Christine no longer had any red spots. Her skin had gone back to its normal complexion, though Erik noticed with some dismay that she had lost some weight since he'd met her. She didn't have much of any fat on her to begin with, so now she was starting to look almost as thin as Erik.

But tonight, he saw happily, she had taken a healthy serving of food. She'd apparently gained some appetite - perhaps for the first time since he'd met her. He remembered that even before they'd run away and she'd fallen ill, she hadn't eaten much of anything after moving into his caravan. She'd vomited up any food she'd eaten.

Erik sat between Nadir and Christine at the kitchen table. Of the three of them, he'd taken the least amount of supper. His mother had tried to get him to eat more, but he simply couldn't stomach more than a little bit at a time. It hadn't mattered, anyway; even when he'd been forced to eat more than he could take, it hadn't caused him to gain anything. He stayed skeletally thin no matter what.

Nadir put his fork down and addressed Christine. "You seem to be feeling remarkably better."

She looked at him, her face pleasant. Since the moment Nadir had been the one to call on the doctor, she hadn't seemed nearly as nervous around him. "I am feeling better, yes."

He nodded. "It's a nice night," he said, and motioned to the window, where the bright colors of early evening were shining through. "You two could go for a walk, if you're up for it. Fresh air is good for you; and neither one of you has seen sunlight in half a month."

"Would you be joining us?" asked Erik.

"Actually, I will be working the night shift in about two hours." Nadir began cutting into his food. "I had a key to the flat made for you two, if you'd like it. I figure you've been here long enough, and have proved that you're not thieves." He flashed a grin at Erik. Erik let himself smile back. Somehow, the incident with the knife the first night he'd been there was no longer a source of tension.

"Thank you for the key." Erik looked at Christine. "It's up to you. About the walk."

Christine looked back at him for a moment, considering. She turned to look out the window, and then turned her attention back to Erik and nodded. "Monsieur Khan may be right. Fresh air could do us some good."

\- - - - - - - - - -

After supper, Nadir handed Erik the spare key to the flat, and he and Christine stepped out into the open air for the first time in two weeks.

Initially, Erik had planned to merely walk beside her, not touching her at all. But she'd reached out her hand and taken his, just as she'd done the morning she recovered. Erik felt his entire core melt. It still felt surreal that she - Christine Daae - wanted any sort of physical contact with him. That she was willing to take his long, grotesque fingers in hers and hold them for any length of time.

It was almost enough to make him wonder if that fantasy he'd had could come true; that Christine could look at him with love-

He shook the idea out of his head. No, she saw him as a friend. And he couldn't be selfish - finding a friend in someone like Christine was more than he could have ever asked for.

"How are you feeling?" he asked her as they walked. "Are you...sore? Or tired?"

"I'm all right," she said. "I mean, physically I am."

He looked at her; her gaze was fixed on the ground. "But emotionally..."

"Everything has happened so fast." Her voice was soft. She still wasn't looking at him. "Two weeks ago, the world was one way. And now..." She bit her lip.

Erik looked away. He forgot, sometimes, that life was not necessarily better for her now the way it was for him. She'd expressed gratitude for meeting him, yes, but she still had to reckon with the fact that her father was dead, that she'd killed someone (regardless of how much that person deserved it). Erik, on the other hand, now had a safe home and two people who cared about him. Erik's life had gone from complete darkness to relative light. Christine had the complete opposite experience.

"I still think about what you said," she whispered, and finally looked at him. "About my father. And the sky." She shifted her gaze up to the stars that glittered in the twilight and smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I like it better at night, because at night I can pick a star and pretend that star is my father. It makes it feel more real. And it does help knowing that he really is in Heaven, that he's really not completely gone. He's not here, but he's here."

Erik nodded. "I prefer the night, too."

Christine watched him. "You do?"

"Yes."

"Why is that? Do you like the stars, too."

"I do." He looked up. As the sun set further into the horizon, more and more tiny lights glittered in the sky above. "But I also feel like everything is so much more beautiful at night. Senses are heightened, and we can't rely on sight as much anymore. Music, for example, is so much lovelier at night, due to the fact that we are simply forced to use our ears more than our eyes. And...it's peaceful. It's quiet. You can lose yourself in the darkness."

"And people can't see what you look like quite as well."

Erik looked at her. She was watching him with a curious expression on her face. It wasn't pity; if anything, it looked like she was studying him, trying to understand him.

"Yes," he said softly. "And people can't see what I look like. That's also true."

They continued on in silence, both watching as the sky became darker above them. Plenty of couples and families passed by them, many staring at Erik's masked face, but he ignored them. They walked until the sound of piano playing drifted out from a nearby window. Whoever was playing was doing so beautifully. Erik brought them to a stop and listened.

Christine stared out ahead of her, at nothing, and Erik could tell that she was letting the music enter her mind. "That's very pretty."

"It is." He looked to the source of the music. It was coming from an open window on the second story of the building they were currently passing.

"It's the kind of music I used to like to dance to."

Erik turned his attention to Christine. Her eyes were melancholy. "Used to?"

"I don't want to dance anymore."

He blinked. "You were a very good dancer-"

"Erik, do you want to sing anymore? Besides to me, I mean." Her eyes had met his, were looking into them intently.

He thought for a moment. Did he want to? He pictured singing to a crowd of people, and though the idea of removing his mask hadn't entered the imagine scenario, the idea still sent cold chills of disgust down his spine. "No."

"Why?"

He stared at her.

"You don't have to answer that," she continued. "But the reason you don't want to sing is the same reason I don't want to dance. If I am going to start over in a new life...I want to really start over. I don't want any more reminders of what things were like before. It will hurt too much."

Erik understood. They both wanted forget; but while he wanted to forget because the memories of life in the camp were painful, she wanted to forget because remembering was painful.

But he still loved music. And so, it seemed, did she.

"Christine." Erik squeezed her hand lightly. "Would you like to learn to sing?"

She looked into his eyes for a moment. There was a flicker of some strong, incomprehensible emotion, and then she looked away and murmured, "Yes, actually, I would."

He smiled. "I can teach you, if you'd like."

She nodded, and he tried to lead her along, but she stayed rooted to the spot. He frowned and looked back at her.

"Christine?"

She didn't look at him. "Erik, why have you been so kind to me?"

He froze. "What do you mean?"

"Since the moment you met me, you've been kind to me."

"I don't understand."

"You didn't have any reason to want to be my friend." She finally looked at him, and he saw the beginnings of tears in her wide eyes. "You've been treated cruelly all your life; why don't you treat others cruelly, too? Why have you taken care of me? Why do you care about me at all?"

"Christine, why-"

"I've had some time to think. Since recovering. I've realized that maybe I don't-" She sighed, her breath shuddering. "Please, Erik, just tell me why you have been so kind."

His heart began hammering in his chest. Did she...did she not want his friendship after all? Did she not want his kindness? "Because you were kind to me."

"I wasn't when we were children," she whispered. "I ran away-"

"You were a child, Christine. It was a long time ago."

"I don't deserve it."

Christine was breathing heavily now. Erik couldn't move.

"What do you mean?" His voice was hoarse.

"I don't deserve your friendship."

He was certain all of Paris could hear his heart in his chest. "Christine-"

"Erik, I think there is actual evil in me. I killed someone. I know he was evil, too, but that doesn't take away the terrible sin of what I did."

Erik tried to stead his own breathing. She...thought she was evil? "Christine, you see me as an equal. Yes, all right, yes. You killed Javert. But please, hear me-" he begged, "-I truly think that eventually, Javert would have killed me. Maybe he would have killed you one day, too."

"I don't think God would care. I don't think that it makes it better in God's eyes-"

"Then damn God."

He didn't say it loudly. In fact, he said it barely under his own breath. But Christine was now looking at him with wide, unbelieving eyes.

Erik took a deep breath. "Christine, if God would truly send you to Hell for doing what you did, then know this. I will see you there, too. Because I refuse - refuse - to go to any sort of paradise where I will not see Sasha, where I will not see you. If the creatures of this Earth who choose to show me affection are kept from the gates of Heaven, then I won't pass through them even if Heaven does exist."

"Oh, Erik, don't say that-"

"I mean it." His voice shook. "You're the first person, ever, to want to be physically near me. The first person to smile at me, without pity. You are holding my hand as we speak. I'm grateful for that."

Christine's mouth had fallen open. In her eyes, he saw that she'd come to some kind of realization. And he could see that whatever she had realized had broken her heart.

"Erik," she breathed. "You've never been held."

It wasn't a question. It was a statement. And, for a fact, it was a true one. Almost true.

"Nadir held me when I thought you were dying," he whispered. "But other than that, no. I never have."

Before he could register what she was doing, Christine had let go of his hand, stepped forward so that there was no space between them, and wrapped her arms around his waist. Her head rested right on his chest.

Erik couldn't breathe.

He couldn't think.

He was in her arms.

In Christine's arms.

Relief and sadness and love filled his entire being, and he knew he was trembling from head to toe. Slowly, he brought one arm over the back of her shoulders and one hand over her golden-haired head.

"You're shaking," she said.

He didn't respond. He knew that if he did, his lungs and throat would betray him and turn any potential words into pitiful tears.

So he only continued to hold her. And she let him. In fact, she held on to him, too.

And he, of course, let her.


	13. Chapter 13

Nadir didn't go in right away. After what he'd learned from the other officers, he wasn't sure what he would even say to Erik and Christine.

He sighed, staring at the building in which he lived. According to his pocket watch, it was nearing three in the morning. They were both probably asleep, anyway; it could wait until sunup. Nadir straightened and entered the building, and then unlocked the door to his flat.

To his surprise, Erik was fully awake. On the coffee table was a burning candle, and he was using the light to read one of Nadir's novels. He was facing away from Nadir, his back against the arm of the chair, and a quilted blanket covered his body waist-down. As Nadir walked into the space after putting away his hat and baton, he took note that Erik, still, wore his mask. He wore it around the clock. He wondered if the boy ever took it off. Nadir had certainly made it clear that his face hadn't bothered him.

Maybe it was for his own mental comfort. It certainly couldn't be physically comfortable.

Erik spotted him and nodded. "Good evening, Monsieur Khan."

Nadir nodded back, and took a seat in the armchair. "Erik. It's a bit late to be reading, don't you think?"

The boy quickly closed the book. "My apologies. If the light will bother you, then I can certainly put it away."

Nadir waved his words away with a flick of his hand. "No, don't worry. What are you reading?"

Erik held up the book for him to see. "Les Miserables. It's actually quite good."

"Yes, that's an excellent book. Not many of my colleagues like it for the way the police are portrayed, and it's a bit controversial in its values, but I like it nonetheless. You can continue reading tonight. I will be going to bed soon, and the light isn't disturbing at all."

Erik's eyes brightened in appreciation, and opened the book again. He sunk into the cushions, and Nadir could see that he was losing himself in the world Victor Hugo had created. But Nadir's own mind was trapped in the conversation he'd had tonight.

Perhaps it couldn't wait.

"Erik."

The boy looked up quickly. "Yes?"

"I think that it's best I discuss with you something that I heard from the Chief of Police earlier in the evening. Something that I am concerned may have involved you and Christine."

Erik's lips thinned but he didn't move. He only stared back, waiting.

"A man was found with a stab wound in his neck, lying in the woods near where the Gypsies are camped." Nadir leaned forward where he sat. "He has been identified as someone named Javert Palomer. And he apparently was the master of your show there."

Erik sat up a bit straighter, a bit stiffer, like a shock had been transmitted to the small of his back. "I-"

The door of the guest room creaked open, and Christine stood there, pale as the moon and eyes just as wide. She was barefoot, in her nightgown, and was looking right at Nadir with fear.

"Christine," he said, and looked from her to Erik, and then back to her. "I'm unsure if the conversation we are having is something you'd like to be here for..."

"I can hear you, anyway." Her voice trembled. "And even if I couldn't, what you're talking about doesn't just involve Erik. It involves me, too."

Nadir blew air out of his nose softly, but then dipped his head once in her direction. "All right. If you'd like to take a seat." He directed her to the couch, where Erik had already moved his feet to the floor, but kept covered by the quilt. Christine, holding onto the frame of the door and then onto the armchair, did sit down on the couch next to Erik.

Both of them watched him with trepidation. Nadir cleared his throat.

"The man looked to have been dead for nearly a fortnight," he continued. "There was a bloody knife in his right hand; the stab wound was on the right side of his neck. Now, it would be a very awkward angle for the man to have stabbed himself, but when we interviewed the Gypsies in the camp, they all claimed that it was, in fact, a suicide. That he'd been talking of suicide for weeks, and must have gone into the woods to do it; they didn't know where he was, they said, so they hadn't alerted the police."

Erik and Christine were, at this point, looking at each other in a mixture of shock and wonder and terror. Nadir continued.

"There is no evidence as to the opposite. But-" He moved so that he was sitting on the edge of his chair. "-there is a running theory that, because the boy in the attraction, The Living Corpse, is missing, it may not have been a suicide at all. In fact, it may explain why the Gypsies are so quick to name it a suicide - for whatever reason, they do not want that boy investigated. Perhaps that boy may reveal that he wasn't there of his own will, and that they didn't try to help. And perhaps they are secretly happy that the boy is gone."

Christine had gripped Erik's hand into hers. They weren't looking at Nadir or each other anymore. They had both turned a sickly green, frozen to their seats.

"However..."

Erik shot his head straight up, clinging to whatever Nadir was about to say next. Christine still wasn't moving.

"...the police are agreeing that it is a suicide. There's a bit of consensus that even if this boy had killed him, that it was probably for the best. The policemen who'd been to the Gypsy carnivals had seen the show, and most found it inhumane - a killing on his part could have been self-defense. It turns out, as well, that Javert has quite a record as a serial ex-con. Law enforcement in Paris is not exactly jumping at the chance to avenge him. So, a suicide it is."

Christine hadn't moved a single muscle, but a solitary tear was making its way down her cheek. Erik gently placed a hand on her shoulder. She leaned into him, and he wrapped an arm around her. He was looking at her with such tenderness that Nadir found it rude to watch them. Nadir turned his attention to the candle on the table.

"I do not want you to tell me what you know of this man's death, do you understand?"

"Yes," Erik replied, still looking at Christine, who now had her eyes closed but was allowing more tears to fall.

"I do want to tell you this: I know what it is like to have murdered another human being."

Christine opened her eyes and gazed at Nadir; there was a sad, pained intensity in her stare.

"In Persia, I had killed a shameful amount of people, all in the name of the law. I was often too forceful; the punishment I dealt out usually didn't remotely meet the crime. I figured that the law was more important than the people following it, and if a few souls were lost in order to uphold the law, then that was simply the way things were. But my son - my only son - found my treatment of the citizens of our city Tehran cruel. He and I fought endlessly on the subject, until he decided the ultimate revenge he could take on me was to turn to crime himself. He was caught stealing with some friends, and a policeman who didn't know he was my son arrested him. And when my son, Reza, resisted, he was killed on the spot."

Erik's eyes went down, empathy plain even through the leather. "I'm sorry, Monsieur."

"I left that life behind right then and there. I decided that I would no longer be that person anymore. I admit that am responsible for the deaths of others - not only the people of Tehran but my own son as well - and I have owned this fact. I have also decided that I cannot change what I did - I can only focus on what I can do now, going forward. I have felt guilt over it nearly every day since, but I cannot let that feeling rule my life."

Nadir stood. "Like I said, I do not want to know if you were involved in any way with the death of that man in the woods. I don't ever want you to tell me. But if you have reason to feel guilt, please know that what's done is already done. You did what you had to do, when you had to do it. And if that guilt refuses to go away, perhaps it might be a good thing to speak to your God directly, as I have done with mine." He looked at the two children again, at the way Christine huddled into Erik and the way he watched her protectively and lovingly. Nadir nodded his head. "Now, I am sorry to leave you on that note tonight, but it's time I retire to bed. Goodnight."

He turned and walked to his bedroom. He turned the knob and opened the door, when Christine's small voice sounded behind him.

"Monsieur Khan?"

He turned and looked at her. She was sitting up straight now, her face still wet with tears.

"Yes?"

Her eyes shone. "I'd like to speak to a Catholic priest tomorrow, if possible."

Erik watched her sadly, and then turned to look at Nadir as well. Nadir smiled knowingly. "I will see what I can do in helping you find one."


	14. Chapter 14

Christine went to confession. She shook the entire time.

She wasn't entirely sure what she was expecting to happen when she confessed her murder of Javert to the priest. She told him everything, from her first time seeing Erik as a child, to her father's death, to what Javert did to her, what she saw Javert do to Erik, and the way she killed him and why. She told him how they ran away, how Nadir took them in, and how the police were accepting that it was a suicide and not a murder.

Christine asked him after she said everything if she should turn herself in.

To her surprise, after a long pause, he said that turning herself in would only be the right thing to do if legal justice needed to be served; if what she said was true, the police have decided not to investigate, not to even entertain their suspicion that another might have killed Javert. The law has decided that it doesn't want to find a potential killer; and, in doing so, have decided that this is their way of serving justice; they have decided to accept Javert's death as justice served. And so confessing to the law would not be necessary for absolution, as the law did not want nor need a confession.

Should the police reopen the case, the right thing to do would be to turn herself in. But for this particular instance, only a confession to the priest and to God was necessary.

The priest assigned Christine a penance; for twenty minutes, every day for a year, she must pray for all of the souls on Earth whose lives are taken by another human's hands, and she must include Javert's soul in her prayers as well. And then he pronounced the Prayer of Absolution:

"God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of His Son had reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiving of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sin in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."

\- - - - - - - - - -

Christine took her penance seriously. Every morning, when she woke, she prayed for all of the murdered souls, including Javert. She put aside her hatred for him and prayed for him anyway.

The confession had put her worries for her soul at ease, but it didn't take away the incredible darkness that lingered when she thought about that night. The way the knife eased into his neck like slicing into hard butter, the sound of his gurgling, the blood. Blood everywhere.

The memories hadn't gone away, not for a moment, since the night they'd run away. Since her recovery, both she and Erik had been poring over Nadir's books, but she was never able to fully immerse herself in them. Since their walk, Erik had mentioned possibly doing singing lessons, but she always put them off, saying they'd start the next day. The thought of Javert constantly tickled the back of her mind.

And so did her father's death.

He was still gone. The idea that he was somewhere in Heaven somewhat helped, as did Erik's suggestion to look at the sky, but the fact remained that he wasn't physically here. And whenever her mind wandered to a memory of her father, her breath caught and she struggled to get herself to breathe again. A hole had formed inside of her, one she hadn't been aware of until she was no longer sick, and thoughts of Gustave only widened that blackness.

The hole grew wider every day. Attempts to talk to him from the window did less and less to stop it from growing by the minute.

It grew so wide that one evening, a week after her confession, while she was sitting on the couch next to Erik, both of them reading while Nadir worked, she thought she was falling into the hole inside of her. Out of nowhere.

A feeling of fear, emptiness, and grief overcame her. She took a gasping breath, her eyes widening. And when she exhaled and tried to breathe again, normally, her breathing became shallow and quick. She couldn't stop it, nor could she stop the trembling that had started in her entire body. She dropped her book to the floor and leaned over, trying to take more air in.

"Christine! Christine, what's wrong?"

She heard Erik's voice, felt his hands go to her shoulders.

Everything. Everything was wrong. Everything was the same as it had been minutes ago, but was darker, meaner, lonelier somehow. She opened her mouth to respond, to say anything in response, but a sob tore itself from inside her. And the hot, wet tears followed. In between sobs, she continued to hyperventilate.

Erik put his arms completely around her and pulled her up to sit straight again. She let him. Hair had fallen into her face, and he gently pushed the hair back as she leaned into him and cried, her face pointed up at the ceiling.

Carefully, he moved her so that she was facing him, and put his cold hands against her jaw, his fingers under hear ears and hair, and the base of his palms on her chin. Christine closed her eyes, unable to stop sobbing.

"What's happened?" he begged. "Please, what's happened?"

"My papa," she struggled to say, and looked at him, "is gone." Another sob wracked her body. "I won't...see him for the rest...of my life... He's dead."

Realization colored Erik's eyes. Slowly, he reached up a tentative finger and wiped away some of the tears that were still falling.

This had to have come from thin air for him. The way she was acting. She'd been smiling at him not ten minutes ago.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

His brows furrowed in confusion through the mask. "For what?"

"For...for this." She gestured to her herself. "For making you deal with this."

Her breathing picked up again, and he pulled her into his arms. Weakly, she brought her arms to rest around his middle and buried her face in his bony collarbone.

"You're not making me deal with anything," he whispered. "You're in pain. It's nothing near a burden. I want to be here for you."

She let herself continue to cry against him, and he lifted a hand and ran his fingers through her curls. Her sobs turned into uneven hiccups. She was lightheaded, but felt protected. This boy, called a monster his whole life, beaten and bruised and scorned for his face, made her feel safer than anything.

As he held and soothed her, he sang to her, very softly.

Her father would do something similar, when she was a child. When she was sad or angry, he would take out his violin and play a happy tune. It always made her feel better.

Music made her feel loved. It made everything feel more secure.

She wouldn't dance. She didn't want to, not anymore. But perhaps accepting music back into her life could be a good way to both bring her joy and honor her father.

"Erik," she whispered.

"Yes?"

"I do want to learn how to sing."

He continued holding her. "Anytime, Christine."

She closed her eyes. "Can we start tomorrow?"

"Absolutely." Christine could hear a small smile in his voice.


	15. Chapter 15

"That was good, Christine! Very pretty. But place your hand in the spot I showed you, right above your navel and below your ribcage. Remember, that's your diaphragm. That muscle, not your chest, is where you should breathe from while singing..."

This was the third day that Erik had spent time teaching Christine to sing in the foyer. Her voice held a lovely sound to begin with, so it wouldn't be hard to transform it into something truly beautiful, given time and practice. They practiced only when Nadir was working, so that they didn't disturb him. Actually, he'd claimed that the singing practice wasn't a bother at all. It was Christine who insisted they wait until it was only her and Erik; blushing, she explained that she didn't want anyone listening until she knew she was good.

Christine did as he said. Her abdomen grew and when she sang scales this time, the sound was richer. There was no piano to practice the scales with, so Erik used his own voice.

"Wonderful!" he exclaimed. "That was beautiful! We need to work on vibrato, but that can come later."

Christine beamed at him, and Erik's heart hammered. He wasn't sure if he would ever get used to seeing her smile at him.

"You did good work today," he continued. "Would you like to continue or stop?"

"We can stop."

He nodded, and turned for the kitchen. "All right. Well, Nadir said that there are some croissants in the kitchen. They're not quite my taste, but I remember you saying that you like them-"

"Erik."

He whirled and met her steady gaze. "Yes, Christine?"

At first, she only looked at him, studying. Then, she took a deep breath, walked to him, and took his hands. "Can I ask you a question?"

His body stilled. "Yes, I suppose," he murmured. He looked at their interlaced fingers, at the way his pointer fingers stretched nearly as long as her entire small hands.

She bit her lower lip. "Why...why do you still wear your mask around me all the time?"

He looked up but didn't respond. Anxiety crept into his mind.

She sighed. "I didn't really think about it until this morning. It hasn't bothered me. But when I woke up it occurred to me that we have become very good friends, and I figured maybe...I don't know. You would feel comfortable by now."

"Christine, remember I said I wouldn't remove it around you anymore-"

"I remember," she whispered, "but, Erik, I meant it when I said your face doesn't bother me. It wasn't your face that made me sick. It was everything else. My guilt over how I treated you as children. My...my papa's death." She frowned and pursed her lips, pain at the mention of her father lingering. "It wasn't your face. I...I do wish that you'd remove it when it's only us. I wish to see you. No hiding."

Erik swallowed.

"I told you before, if you do not wish to take it off, you don't ever need to. I won't force you. It's only something I want, but it's entirely up to you." She gave him a small smile.

Erik squeezed her hands, and she squeezed back. His shoulders relaxed. "Is it something that you truly wish for?" he asked quietly.

Christine examined his eyes for a moment, and then nodded. "I will never judge you for your face, Erik. I promise. You're my friend, and I will only ever look at you with love."

With love. Erik didn't know - didn't want to even dare hope - that she meant it the way he wished she did. Friends loved each other, but not the way he loved her. Either way, he believed her. Looking into her eyes, he knew she was telling the truth. She didn't care what he looked like.

He took his hands from hers and brought them behind his head, untying the mask from his face. He held it in his left hand and stood, back straight, facing her. Slowly, Christine took the mask from his hand and brought it to the coffee table, laying it down. She returned to him and took his fingers once more.

"You're beautiful, Erik," she said softly.

"No," he responded immediately, "I'm not."

She frowned. "You are."

"Christine, please," he whispered. "That doesn't make me feel better. I know that I'm not. I know you're trying to be kind, but that's not how it feels. It feels like you are lying."

"You have a beautiful soul."

"That's not the same as-"

"And your eyes."

That took him off guard. "What?"

She smiled. "Your eyes are handsome. Very much so."

His eyes. His sunken, mismatched eyes were handsome to her?

"That first morning, when you made breakfast in the caravan," she continued, "one of the first things I noticed was your eyes. And how different, how pretty they are. They're like two gemstones of different colors. They're beautiful."

He felt warmth on his face. He wondered if he was blushing. If he was, he wondered if it was frightening to look at; she didn't react at all. "You actually do believe my eyes are...are beautiful?"

She nodded. "Haven't you looked at them in a mirror?"

"Not since I was a child," he said, "and only once."

Her eyes widened. "You've only looked in a mirror once?"

He nodded. "I didn't want to." At the memory, his throat constricted, but he pushed through it. "When I was young, I decided one day that I didn't want to wear my mask anymore. It was uncomfortable, and nobody else had to wear one; so why did I? My mother was so angry at my disobedience, that she dragged me into her bedroom and forced me to look into the mirror there. I screamed and broke the glass." He felt that his hands were shaking. He could choose not to relive this memory, but he wanted to tell her. He wanted to share it with her; it felt good to. "I thought it was a monster."

He could picture it so well. The utter disgust at that thing in the glass, the sheer horror. He was so afraid, only to find out... Erik didn't realize he was crying until he blinked and tears ran down his cheeks.

"Oh, Erik," soothed Christine, and she reached up a hand to wipe his face of tears, the same way he'd done only a few nights ago. Erik placed one of his hands on hers, cupping her palm between his fingers and face. She didn't pull away.

"I didn't know it was me," he continued. "I was terrified that whatever was in the mirror was hiding under my bed, in my wardrobe, in the dark corner of the room. I found out later how mirrors work. But I didn't dare ever look into one again. I found out that I was the monster I feared so much."

Erik closed his eyes. Then, to his shock, Christine pulled his face down, stood on her toes, and kissed his cheek.

He sucked in a breath and stared at her, feeling warmth spread throughout his body. Joy. Elation. So this was what it was like. "I've never been kissed before," he whispered. "My mother refused to kiss me."

A mixture of sadness and anger colored her face pink. With the energy those emotions gave her, she pulled his face down again and kissed him again and again on both of his cheeks. So many times that he lost count.

To his horror, Erik's trousers became suddenly a bit too tight. He shifted, hoping that she wouldn't look down.

"There," she said, and smiled. "Sixteen kisses, one for every year that you didn't receive one."

"Christine," he whispered, and his mind was clouded by emotion; he couldn't think straight. The words poured out of him before he could stop them. "I love you."

Her smile wavered, and for a sickening moment, Erik thought that perhaps he'd completely pushed her away with the declaration. Perhaps he'd just ruined the best thing in his life.

But then, her face grave, she pulled his face down again and pressed her lips onto his. Their mouths didn't move; they only kissed, and let their arms wrap around one another. Erik was trembling completely.

Christine, finally, pulled away, her eyes just as wide as his. "I love you, too."

Erik inhaled. "You do?"

"Yes," she whispered, and her voice was full of wonder, as if she were coming to the realization of her love as she told it to Erik. "I do."


	16. Chapter 16

Christine loved him.

The kiss confirmed it.

The familiarity she felt with him, the safety, the love of his company and wanting to be near him, to hold his hands. She loved him.

And with that knowledge, she didn't want to leave his side. At all.

She knew that what she was about to ask wasn't polite or proper. But she'd long since stopped caring about that. And, she suspected, so had he.

"Erik," she whispered.

He was looking at her with a mix of love and amazement, as if still processing what had occurred between them. "Christine?"

"It's getting a bit late."

He nodded slowly. "You want to go to bed."

She took his long, cold hands in hers. "I want you to go to bed with me."

His eyebrows lifted and his jaw dropped ever so slightly. "Christine, I-"

"I don't want to do anything," she amended, and he closed his mouth. "I only want to sleep next to you. I'm not ready for anything more. I can't. Not since...not since-"

"I understand," he said gently, and she sighed in relief at not having to mention him, what he'd made her do.

"I only want to fall asleep with you." Christine looked him in the eyes. "Would you be willing to do that?"

He paused, and then smiled, full of genuine affection. "Yes. I would be thrilled to."

\- - - - - - - - - - -

Christine and Erik changed separately, as they had every night before bed. This time, however, after Christine crawled into bed, Erik followed.

In the darkness, they both lay on their backs, neither moving, neither touching both barely breathing. Christine could feel her own heart in her chest.

"Erik?"

"Hm?" His voice was soft.

"Can I hold your hand?"

He didn't say anything. Instead, Christine heard a rustling in the blankets and then cold fingers found hers. Instant relief and familiarity flooded through her at his touch. He sighed. She wondered if he was feeling the same thing.

They held one another's hands for several, silent minutes, the only sound the soft breathing between them.

Then: "Christine?"

She turned her hood to face him. She could see, in the darkness, the noseless silhouette of his face. "Yes?"

"Did you mean that?" he whispered. "That you love me?"

Christine picked herself up onto her elbows and moved so that she was against him. She laid her head on his shoulder and her free hand on his chest. The hands between them were still interlocked. She smiled as the palm on his chest picked up the quick thrum of his heart.

"I do mean it," she said.

Silence.

"Christine," he breathed, and placed his free hand on hers. "I've loved you since we were still living in the caravan. Since you asked for friendship."

She pressed her face into his shirt. "I'm surprised by that."

His face turned to her. "Why?"

"Because since the moment I met you, I've never been stable. I vomited the first morning after my father's death. I was forced into things I didn't want, physically..."

"You were in anguish," he said softly. "And whatever Javert made you do...it doesn't say anything about you. He made me do things to. Not the same things, but I was forced into acts I didn't want."

"I killed a man-"

"We already talked about that."

Christine exhaled and gripped his shirt a bit tighter. He reciprocated by rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand.

"I got sick and essentially forced you to be a nurse for a week. I've been emotional; so, incredibly emotional. If anything, I should be the one asking you if you mean it. If you really love me."

"Christine, you didn't force me into anything. I wanted to help you. I want to be here, too, when you feel strongly - good or bad. I've had a difficult life. You are the only person who even vaguely understands what it is like to really be in pain the way I have. I don't begrudge you for how you've reacted the last month. I love you all the more for it - while also wishing I could take all of that pain away from you. And only to add to that, you see me. Erik. Not what everyone else has seen, but me for who I am."

"I do see you," she whispered. "And I love you."

Erik let out a tiny, loving laugh, barely more than a breath, and shifted to kiss her forehead. She smiled.

"I want to be with you." He curled his fingers around the palm that rested on his chest. "I want to have a normal life, if we can."

"I don't know how normal of a life we can have."

He squeezed her fingers. "There's an Opera House in Paris. Nadir mentioned it."

"Oh?"

"I love to write music. Nadir knows someone whose fiancee is a ballerina there, and the ballerina's mother is apparently the ballet mistress herself. Maybe, through Nadir's connection, they'd take some of my pieces."

"Maybe, yes."

"And if I keep teaching you to sing, maybe one day you could-"

Christine cut him off. "I don't want to think about that right now." There was silence, and Erik stared at her. "I can't think about that right now." She moved in closer, and Erik released the hand between them and used his arm to wrap around her back. "When I'm with you, Erik, everything is calm and peaceful. I'm not engulfed by the past or terrified by the future. And when I am, you - your voice - helps to bring me back here, with you. And I'm safe again."

Erik sighed, and brought the hand resting on his chest to his lips, kissing her fingers.

"Erik, we can worry about what will happen later. But please, can we focus on what is happening now? I want to focus on you. When I'm near you, I feel home. I want to focus on that feeling."

He dropped her hand back to where it was. "Then that is what we will focus on."

"You're my peaceful place," she said.

"You're mine."

She looked into his eyes in the darkness. In whatever light there was, she could see their shimmer as he looked back at her. "Say that again, please."

"You're mine, Christine."

"You're mine, too." She closed her eyes.

There was a long silence between them, and then she felt one last, long kiss on her forehead, the feeling sending soft pleasure through her mind, and her lips quirked up in absolute contentment. There would always be demons in her mind, always be grief. And for him, there would always be sorrow for what life could have been had he been shaped any other way in the womb.

But here, now, they had each other. And that was enough.

"Goodnight, Christine."


End file.
